


Chain Reflex

by nookienostradamus



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Choking, Coercion, Connor Wants It, Corruption, Gore, Human AU, Jealousy, M/M, Manipulation, Marking, Masochism, Masturbation, Modern AU, Murder, Mystery, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Plot With Smut, Possessiveness, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Scheming Connor, Serial Killer, Slapping, Spanking, Video Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2020-10-19 06:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nookienostradamus/pseuds/nookienostradamus
Summary: Started as athread on Twitter, and will continue here with regular updates.Connor Stern hosts the weekly true crime podcast "Dead to Rights" from his apartment in Detroit. DtR is gaining popularity because of Connor's insight, his exhaustive research…...and the fact that Detroit has a serial killer.But what starts as a push for a wider audience, and maybe a role in solving the case, quickly becomes an infatuation after Connor interviews Lieutenant Hank Anderson, the head of the Deviant Killer task force. As Connor gets more and more involved in the case—and with Hank—shocking information is unearthed, loyalties are tested, and a wide net of suspicion is cast over the city. As multiple crimes intertwine, they could all be building toward a collision that will alter Connor’s life forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _"Chain reflex" describes a phenomenon noted in psychological research. Near the beginning of the 20th century, scientists noted that rats could learn to navigate a certain maze layout quickly, and reliably navigate the same setup over and over. However, if certain turns in the maze were changed, the animals would become disoriented: running into walls, losing their bearings, and ultimately being unable to complete the altered maze._
> 
> Hank is coercive and somewhat sleazy. But this is _not_ non-con. Don't @ me; I don't care.

Connor started Dead to Rights on a whim about seven months ago. In all fairness, he shouldn’t expect to have much of an audience yet. On top of that, there’s an absolute glut of U.S.-based true crime podcasts. The truth is, despite a lifelong interest in crime and policing, he didn’t get in on the ground floor and as a result has a lot of competition. 

So he’s begun, privately, to think of the Deviant Killer investigation as a gift. Detroit’s police department is contending with an active serial murderer, now with six victims under his belt. Six _ known _ victims. 

DPD assumes it's a man, only because serial killers are typically male. Aside from this assumption—and a possible motive—there is frustratingly little known about the suspect.

It was DPD's Lieutenant Hank Anderson, a thirty-plus-year veteran of the force, who first posited that the early killings were related. The murderer has refined his MO, but police say forensic examination continues to support the idea that all six deaths are the work of the same man.

The department—and Lieutenant Anderson—have been tight-lipped about the whole affair so far.

Connor knows that law enforcement will often withhold details of the crimes from the public, both to lower the chance of prompting a copycat killer, and to separate the real culprit from nutty wannabes since only the man himself will know the aspects of the crimes that were unreleased.

But certain facts are indisputable: all of the victims suffered blunt force trauma to the head from what appears to be a tire iron or crowbar. All but the first two died when their throats were crushed by the killer—the imprint of a boot pressed into the skin of their necks. In possibly the most sensational detail, each victim also had at least one run-in with law enforcement. Some were guys with rap sheets: domestic abuse, assault. Some had been accused of a crime, but the case went nowhere. 

It looks like the murderer is a species of vigilante, a criminal killing lesser criminals. It's hard to feel sorry for the scumbags he puts down, if you believe that the ones without record escaped justice. They're pigs, lechers..._ deviants_.

The reason why Dead to Rights is starting to get national recognition is because Connor himself coined the moniker the press now uses: _ the Deviant Killer. _

Whether the cops love it or hate it, the name is here to stay. And though they might privately prefer to let the guy keep doing his work—taking out the trash—calls from the public to nab him are increasing. After all, the victims have either served their time or pleaded down.

The pressure is on.

Which is why Connor has promised listeners that his next episode is going to be explosive. Why his subscription numbers are going through the roof: he's scored a live interview with the head of the task force, Lieutenant Hank Anderson himself.

Connor is setting up to record on a Wednesday night, checking and re-checking his audio equipment. When he learned he'd snagged the interview with Anderson, he'd splurged on a pair of Heil PR40 mics, real pro-grade stuff that took a hefty chunk out of his credit line.

_ Totally worth it. _

He'd been badgering the DPD media office for a chance to talk to the lieutenant since before the formation of the Deviant Killer Task Force. Depending on who he talked to, he'd been either gently or brusquely rebuffed every time.

One liaison had even told him that it was Anderson himself putting up roadblocks, though the rep had hastily changed tack in the next sentence or two.

Then, DtR had put up an episode about crowd-sourcing information during the Golden State Killer case in California.

He dug into how a significant amount of the research and legwork was done by citizen journalists—with even podcasters getting in on the action.

Was it a blatant play for DPD attention? Fuck, yes it was. But the gambit paid off.

Less than a week after the episode went up, one of the liaisons (the rude one, actually) made a comparatively meek phone call to open the channel between Connor and the officers on the case.

Connor hasn't yet talked directly with Anderson. He's gotten one direct email from the man.

That had been enough to send a shiver of anticipation rolling down his spine.

Hank Anderson seems gruff, no-nonsense, _ imposing._ Though Connor has only heard him speak once—at a press conference asking for the public's help—he'd positively commanded attention.

The assembled crowd on the courthouse steps had fallen silent as Anderson spoke, quiet enough to hear the rush of passing traffic underneath his words. Even on the TV, where Connor had been watching, the lieutenant exuded presence and unquestionable authority.

He spoke in a dark rumble like a thunderstorm, grave and compelling. Connor had barely been able to blink, much less look away.

This, he thought (to put it crudely), was a guy who could _ get shit done_.

Now, checking his setup for the millionth time, Connor feels breathless.

He lives on the second floor, but asked that Anderson ping his cell instead of using the call box so he can walk down and personally let the lieutenant in. He hopes some huge contingent of uniformed cops won't have to come, too.

He wants a candid exclusive, not some scripted, playbook stuff. Just a conversation with the man heading the investigation into one of only two known, active serial killers in the whole country.

This interview may put Dead to Rights on a whole new level, and Connor is determined not to screw it up.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when the text tone sounds from his phone. Before he picks it up with shaking fingers, he dashes to the window that looks out onto the street below. Sure enough, there's a cruiser parked by the curb, almost obscured by the shadow of a huge elm.

Its light deck is dark. For a second there is no movement, then Connor realizes he's supposed to text back and confirm that he's home. And ready.

He hits "Send," then picks up his old Zippo to light a scented candle, thinks better of it, and puts the lighter down.

It's not like he didn't scrub every corner of the apartment with a toothbrush, anyway. Some people find the scent of the candles too heavy and cloying.

Connor chides himself for feeling like a high schooler about to pick up his prom date. He straightens his shirt, runs a hand through his hair, then heads down.

The man in the doorway is _ enormous_. Not heavy, though he's got a bit of a paunch, but tall and broad-shouldered with a tree-trunk build.

Connor is fairly tall himself, but he feels dwarfed.

Eyes of an indeterminate color catch the sallow light from the lamp over the front stoop. The fridge-sized gentleman Connor assumes is Hank Anderson wears a beat-up canvas jacket over a printed shirt, the tails hanging untucked. He smells vaguely of Chinese takeout.

"You the interviewer?" the man asks, and Connor knows right away by that stormy voice that, _ yes _, this is the lieutenant.

He also notes that Anderson doesn't use _ his _ name, even though he knows what it is. Doesn't say _ podcaster_, either. Just _ interviewer_, like Connor is a piece of equipment.

He's determined not to let it bother him.

"That's right," he says, and puts out a hand. "Connor Stern. It's a real honor to meet you, sir. Thank you for agreeing to do this."

Anderson frowns. "Still not a hundred percent sure what it is I agreed to do.”

At that, Connor stumbles a little. "I, uh—well, I have a—" Anderson still hasn't taken his hand. "Why don't you come upstairs and I'll show you where we're going to record?"

"Yeah," Anderson says. "Okay." He turns to the guy behind him, whom Connor hadn't seen. Anderson had blocked the door completely with his bulk.

"I'm okay," he says. "Shouldn't take too long."

"It could take up to two hours," Connor says. "Possibly more."

Without looking at Connor, Anderson turns and says again: "Shouldn't take too long."

And yes, yep—Connor's intimidated. He told himself he wouldn't fall for the tough, terse cop schtick, that he'd push and ask the hard questions like a real reporter.

But Anderson is so damn _ big_. He still won't shake Connor's hand, but he could probably crush it.

"Please," Connor says, giving up on the handshake for now. "Come on upstairs and I'll explain everything."

His heart is hammering against his rib cage, nearly to the point of pain as Anderson follows him with thumping steps to the second floor landing.

Connor opens the door and winces at the faint scent of bleach.

If it's a bother, Anderson doesn't remark on it as he sweeps past and into the apartment proper.

The mics stand—gleaming and very out-of-place—on the kitchen table. Wires snake all over its surface. Connor's place is pretty tiny: one bedroom, one bathroom, with a kitchen and dinette and a modest living room. 

Anderson seems even more outsize in the small area.

Clearing his throat, Connor asks, "Can I offer you a drink?"

"You got coffee?"

"At eight o'clock at night?"

Anderson comes right back with, "That a problem?"

"Uh, no," Connor says, still thrown off his game. "No, let me put some on. Look around if you like."

Anderson sits at the kitchen table instead, reaching one hand out toward the mic then pulling back.

"Please, have a seat." _ God_, Connor thinks, _ I'm fucking this up_.

Anderson grunts, deciding at last he _ does _ want to touch the microphone. It tilts on its stand as he pushes at it with one thick finger.

Connor swallows hard and empties entirely too much coffee into the filter.

"Tell me again what I'm here for," Anderson says, leaning back in the chair until it creaks.

The coffee maker sighs and spits steaming water, filling the room with a rich scent.

"I'm a podcaster," Connor says. "Like an old-fashioned radio show. Sort of."

Anderson raises his eyebrows. "Old-fashioned."

"Sort of," Connor repeats. "Some podcasts tell stories. You know, fiction. Mine looks at true stuff. Mostly murder. People like hearing about crime."

A huff. "Long as it doesn't happen to them," Anderson mutters.

To that, Connor doesn't have anything to say.

"You popular?" asks Anderson.

"Getting there."

"What good is this going to do if nobody listens to your 'podcast,' huh?"

While Connor tries to pretend that doesn't cut him right to the quick, it does. "I've been getting a lot more subscriptions since I announced the interview with you," he says. "People are interested in this case. They want to get this guy." At Anderson's frown, he quickly re-directs. "They want _ you _ to get this guy."

The sentiment earns another grunt.

The coffee maker sputters.

"Do you want to take off your jacket?" Connor asks. He makes the mistake of turning, because for the first time since they met at the door, Anderson is looking right at him.

"Do you want me to take off my jacket?" he asks.

All at once, Connor feels gut-punched. He's still intimidated, but he's also _ interested_. Make that _ aroused_, actually, though it's not something he'll admit until a little later.

He breathes in deep before speaking. "If it makes you more comfortable."

With a closed-lipped smile that looks somewhat less than wholesome, Anderson shrugs off the canvas coat, tugging at the sleeves to get his hands free before draping it over the back of the chair. "Better?"

Trying to stifle a furious blush, Connor turns back to the cupboard.

He hopes to fucking God he isn't trembling as he takes down two mugs. "How do you take it?" he asks without looking behind him.

"How do you take yours?"

Connor nearly chokes. He scolds himself and, with a flash of inspiration, figures two can play at this game. "I take mine with cream," he says, keeping his voice soft and even. "Is that all right for you?"

A low chuckle sounds behind him.

"That's fine by me," Anderson says.

After filling the cups and adding a splash of half and half, Connor walks smoothly and deliberately to the table.

He places the coffee mug in front of Anderson, then sits, forcing himself to look at the man's face.

_ Blue. His eyes are blue. _

"Before we start, I want to tell you a couple of things," says Connor. "I'll be recording the whole time, but I'll only ask about the Deviant Killer. If there's something you'd rather have off the record, I can edit it out in post-production." Waiting for a nod from Anderson, he takes a sip of coffee. Even with cream, it's appallingly strong.

"Okay," says Anderson, motioning for him to go on.

"Same goes if you accidentally say something you'd rather the public didn't hear."

Anderson squints. "You _ are _ the public, kid. I'm not going to reveal anything that'll compromise my investigation."

"No, no," Connor corrects himself. "Of course not."

Anderson takes a sip of his own coffee and grimaces. Even so, he says, "That's the way I like it. Nice and strong."

Connor curses the blush that starts to creep rapidly up his neck from below his shirt collar. "Good. Any more questions for me before we start?"

"Nope. Go ahead."

Connor nods and starts recording, the fluttery feeling in his belly growing more insistent. "Listeners," he begins, "as promised, I'm bringing you an exclusive live interview with Lieutenant Hank Anderson of the Detroit Police Department. As you know by now, Lieutenant Anderson is the head of the Deviant Killer Task Force, charged with identifying the person suspected of killing at least six people in the Detroit metro area. Lieutenant Anderson has agreed to join me in order to reach out for any information that might help."

Connor clears his throat. "First of all, Lieutenant Anderson, I want to thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to be here."

"This is part of my 'busy schedule,'" says Anderson. "My team and I are working twenty-four-seven to make sure there are no more victims."

A hot flush of shame rises on Connor's face.

Whether or not Anderson has seen it, he seems to soften a little, though his voice is still gruff. "We would appreciate any assistance with ID-ing this guy. Any piece of information helps."

Heartened, Connor shoots him a small smile. He briefly runs down the known details of the case for new listeners: the head trauma, the boot prints on the throats of four victims, their run-ins with the law. 

Then, he asks, "Lieutenant Anderson, can you tell me anything about the cause of death for the first two alleged victims?"

"Sure, _ Connor_," Anderson says, emphasizing the name. "I obviously can't give too many details, but the prevailing theory is that the first two bodies attributed to our guy died from blunt force trauma."

"Just that?" Connor asks.

"Looks like it," says Anderson. "As your listeners might know, the signatures of serial murderers can change over time. As they get used to killing, get bolder, start feeling like they can get away with it."

Connor's breath feels trapped painfully in his lungs. Anderson knows how to work an audience. Quite clearly, he's either in his element...or he was faking ignorance about the podcast and about true crime enthusiasts in general.

"The person we believe to be the first victim was actually found second," Anderson continues. "And the fourth identified."

"Byron McCullers," Connor says. "His teeth were knocked out, so you couldn't ID him by dental records."

"Some of the teeth were missing, yes. That did make identification difficult. That and the state of advanced decomposition when the body was discovered."

"He was identified by DNA?" Connor asks.

"I can't comment on that," says Anderson. "Let's just say it took awhile. The skull showed signs of significant injury, enough to cause death."

"Suggesting rage?"

"Suggesting thoroughness. He didn't want this guy to get up ever again."

Connor has heard some permutation of the sentiment many times, but—somehow—hearing it Anderson's voice, it sends a shudder traveling along the full length of his spine from tailbone to nape. His skin prickles.

"No boot-marks on the throats of the first two?" he asks.

"Unclear on the first," Anderson says, leaning further back in the chair and making it squeal in protest until Connor is afraid it'll break. "Hard to tell from the state of the body."

Connor presses him. "The hyoid bone was intact?"

Anderson leans forward. "No comment."

His stare is so intense, the blue of his eyes seeming to darken even under the cheery kitchen light.

Connor sputters, stalls. Even though he knows this case inside and out, he wishes to God he'd made notes.

Anderson wets his bottom lip, clicks his teeth together.

"Have you, uh, been able to identify what kind of shoe made the prints on the later four?" asks Connor. He winces. "I mean, what kind of boot?"

"Standard work boot, slip-proof sole, deep tread," Anderson says. "Anyone could buy it online or at Walmart."

“Connor breathes and pushes on. "Size?"

"Unclear. It's wide. Wider at the toe."

Raising his eyebrows, Connor posits lightly, "Maybe a steel toe cap?"

"It's a possibility, yeah," Anderson says. He picks up the coffee mug and drains most of it in a couple gulps.

"So he might work an industrial job?" Connor asks. "Auto industry?"

"Slaughterhouse, maybe." Anderson's reply is meant to sound nonchalant, though it's anything but.

Connor fails to check himself. "Unlikely," he says. When he puts the coffee mug down, Anderson is staring.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Uh, well—" There's no chance to backtrack. "Pigs, maybe," Connor says. "But cattle are heavy. One of them steps on your boot, that steel cap curls under..."

To his utter shock, Anderson lets loose with a ringing laugh. The sound fills the tiny space. Then he brings his hand down sideways toward the table, mimicking a blade. "Slice those toes right off."

His smile is slow to fade, giving a vague idea of what his face would look like if he were to give a _ genuine _ smile.

Connor decides it would be pleasing. "Correct," he says.

"Pigs," Anderson echoes, apropos of nothing, scratching his close-trimmed gray beard. He nods in Connor's direction.

And Connor thinks, _ I've won him over. _ "Are you looking at any suspects?" he asks.

"I've got my eye on a few people."

_ Mine_.

_ My eye_. As if he’s the task force’s sole member.

"Do other team members have different ideas?" asks Connor.

When Anderson smiles this time, it's both a concession and a warning. His eye, at the moment, is on _ Connor _. "Well, the point of having a team is getting different ideas."

"Sure, uh...of course."

"How about _ you _?" Anderson asks. "You got any ideas?"

"Oh...me?" Connor feels like an idiot for letting the question take him by surprise.

"Sure. You're a smart kid." Anderson makes a vague gesture with his hand. "Tell me what you think."

A painful silence stretches between them. Anderson stares.

"Okay," Connor begins, "well..." He swallows hard. "People online are calling him some kind of Dexter. You know the TV show?"

Anderson nods.

"Someone who researches and takes out bad guys. Thinks he's doing some sort of good to society by killing these people."

"But you don't think so." Anderson runs a thumb underneath his lower lip.

Shaking his head, Connor says, "No. First off, someone with the compulsion to kill doesn't care about what's good for society. He only wants to satisfy his own needs. Second, real serial killers _ hunt_. As in active stalking. They look for victims who fit their type in person, not on paper. Or in some..._database_. If serial killers liked research, they'd be—"

"Podcasters?" Anderson supplies.

"No! I mean, uh, maybe." _ Fuck_, Connor is flustered. Anderson makes him feel secure one minute and pulls the rug out from under him the next. If _ he _ were a killer, he would hate to be in an interrogation room with this guy. But he'd give his right arm to be a fly on the wall.

"What is his type, if not—" Anderson crooks his fingers in air quotes "—'evildoers?' Most serial killers hunt within their own race. Most of the vics are white guys, but one was black, another one was from Pakistan."

"May be the type of evil they're doing," says Connor.

"So he follows them around until he catches them transgressing in a specific way." 

The emphasis Anderson put on “transgressing” unnerves Connor.

Still, he's wildly excited; he's sitting here talking shop with the head of a serial killer task force. _ Finally _. The uncertainty only adds to it.

"Maybe," he says.

"How does he pick them in the first place?" Anderson asks him.

Connor gives a ridiculous-sounding laugh. "That's your job, Lieutenant."

With a slim smile, Anderson sits back. "Fair enough."

They talk for another hour about the case, and the theories that are floating around on true crime forums. Anderson doesn't shoot them down, but he doesn't really give them credence, either.

At the end of it, Connor is more than satisfied.

When he stops the recording, he realizes he's exhausted. After a yawn that he hides behind his hand, he says, "I can send you a rough cut of the pod to listen through before I edit. Just to make sure."

Anderson stands up and shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "You've got a tight rein on it."

"Thank you."

"Interested to see where this goes," says Anderson. He doesn't appear tired at all.

Connor stands and tries another laugh. "Well, you can always come back and give my listeners an update on the case."

Eyebrows raised, Anderson says, "I could."

This time, when Connor extends his hand, Anderson takes it. His hand his huge, the palm warm and dry.

"Thank you so much, Lieutenant Anderson," says Connor. "It was a real pleasure."

"Call me 'Hank,'" he says.

A pleased flush spreads over Connor's skin, making the room feel too warm. "Great, okay. Hank."

Hank drops his hand. "Figure you should use my first name if you're gonna suck my cock."

Blindsided, Connor stammers. He can barely breathe. "Excuse me?"

"An exchange," says Hank. "I'll keep you—and your _ listeners_—updated on whatever case details I can share. You give me something in return."

"That...that's blackmail!"

Hank leans toward him.

Connor catches a different scent—sweat and aftershave. He's dizzy with it.

"It's not," says Hank. "Because you want it."

"I—"

"Don't you?"

The silence is excruciating. It feels like every muscle in Connor's body is tense. At last, he whispers, "Yes."

Hank smiles, starts unbuckling his belt. "Think you should get on your knees, then."

Connor obeys.

**

Afterward, he remembers everything. Remembers it all in stark, vivid detail.

Connor lies in bed as late night becomes early morning, wide awake, recalling the feel of Hank's thick cock lying heavy on his tongue. The salty-sour taste filling his mouth as Hank came. How he'd completely forgotten the hard linoleum under his knees, his head foggy and his heart pounding. How it had left him panting and red-lipped and furiously hard, swiping spit and come from his chin with the back of his hand as Hank moved away and zipped up.

"Very good," he'd said, stroking Connor's hair with one giant hand. "I'll be in touch."

When the door had closed, leaving Connor alone, he toppled over, falling hard on his hip and only barely managing to catch himself with a shaking hand.

It only took a second or two before he was furiously tearing at his jeans to get a hand around his own straining cock.

He came in less than a minute, shouting loudly enough that Hank could have heard had he still been outside the door, listening.

Part of Connor wished he was, and part of him knew he wasn't.

Afterward, he stood in a hot shower, letting his pale skin turn pink and then red, gears turning in his brain. Whatever had happened after, the episode would be a smash hit. He couldn't wait to edit.

He was pretty sure, however, that hearing Hank's low, rough voice on the recording would turn him on so thoroughly he'd have to jerk off before finishing the edit.

Connor finally drifts off to sleep, though he only has a few hours. He's on shift tomorrow. Podcasting doesn't pay the bills—not yet, at least. Meanwhile, he's got a pretty sweet gig, comparatively, at the Detroit Public Library.

When his alarm goes off, he swears loudly and slaps the snooze button, but knows he can't put off getting up.

After digging at his swollen, crusty eyes with the heel of his hand, Connor gets out of bed. The coffee grounds from the night before are still in the filter basket, stale and wet. To keep them from reminding him too much of Hank's lips on the rim of the cup, he throws them out.

After a shower, he feels mostly human. Predictably, Markus is at the library already...and has been for half an hour.

Connor's life intertwines with his coworker's in numerous ways; they're very nearly two sides of the same coin. They're very close in age; Connor is thirty-one, Markus is twenty-nine. Like Connor, Markus is a podcaster. He's got a show called The Revolution—intensely focused on local and state politics, specifically relating to the black experience in Detroit. A couple of years ago, his special series on Flint was mentioned on NPR.

More recently, Markus got a shout-out on Pod Save the World about his work on gentrification in central Detroit. Connor had taken him out for drinks after the show aired, and hoped he'd done a good job masking his violent jealousy.

Now _ he _ has something to crow about.

"Hey," Markus says in greeting, studying Connor's face. "Either you didn't sleep last night, or you got in a bar brawl. Look at those shiners."

Connor swipes at the puffy skin under his eyes self-consciously. "I'll take 'no sleep' for five hundred, Alex."

Markus raises his eyebrows. "Hope it was worth it." There's definitely a note of salacious curiosity in his tone.

He and Connor had tried dating for a few weeks the year before.

Markus is _ gorgeous_, of course. Has an incredible body. And the sex was _ really _ good.

The two of them share a lot of mutual respect, but at some point while they were together, it became clear to both of them that they were much better off as friends.

Now, Markus is dating a woman named North. Connor has only met her a couple of times, but he can see she's incredibly smart. And she actually has the working-class background that Markus doesn't. His dad, Carl, is a top architect on the national stage; they're not hurting for money. It's Markus's incredible empathy that makes him good at capturing the stories of the underprivileged.

Connor envies that, too, in a way. It's not like he lacks empathy, and both of them use their platforms to expose the worst that human beings can do to one another. But Markus's pursuit of justice seems more _ pure _ than digging up dirt on horrific murders.

At least, that's the way Connor sees it. If he can leverage this inroad, if he can use the podcast to help catch the Deviant Killer (and get attention in the process), maybe his morbid interests will have paid off.

Hank Anderson is the key.

And as eager as Connor is to use that key to open a door to higher status, he might be just as eager to let Hank use _ him _ in exactly the way he had last night.

Markus has power because of his platform. Hank...well, Hank _ is _ power. He radiates it. And Connor wants more than just a taste.

"Late night recording?" Markus asks.

"It was incredible," Connor says. "I can't wait to drop this episode."

"Oh, shit," says Markus. "Did you interview that cop? The one heading the task force?"

Connor nods, suppressing a grin.

Markus holds his hand up for a high five, and Connor slaps it soundly. "What was it like?" Markus asks. "Did he give you any exclusives?"

"Nothing earth-shattering, but he's got an incredible grip on this case. He's smart. Relentless.” He pauses, letting go of a nervous laugh. “Kind of scary, honestly."

Markus frowns a little. "Probably not the same scary for you as he would be for someone like me."

Connor goes quiet. He forgets stuff like that, and feels like shit about it. How, if Hank had threatened Markus, he might have been afraid of getting a bullet in the head.

Not just a cock in his mouth.

A good part of Connor wants to protest, to say, _ Hank wouldn't go that far_. But a sliver of him is very frightened that, in fact, he could.

If Connor has learned anything from his work, it's that there's no bright line between good and bad guys.

Did the Deviant Killer's victims deserve what they got? Does what he thinks about it really matter? 

If he spends too much time mulling over whether he can idolize a man who demanded a blow job in return for access to an investigation, he'll go mad. It's only in that moment, talking to Markus, that Connor decides to put his goals before his qualms. To smudge his own ethical boundaries. The podcast is going to skyrocket. It's what he's always wanted, and now it's within reach if he makes the appropriate concessions.

And is it really a sacrifice? Hank is commanding, desirable, primally sexual.

Connor can let Hank use his platform—and his body—because he'll stand on Hank's shoulders whether he knows it or not.

He just can't let the man invade his mind…

"You okay, space cadet?" Markus's voice cuts through the fog of contemplation.

"Oh. Yeah," Connor says. "Just planning." He stops for a moment. "Anticipating."

Markus smiles. It's a knowing expression, but only from a business point of view. The thrill of a scoop.

"Let me guess," Markus says, leaning on the smudged surface of the information desk, "you're spending most of your shift in the Free Press archives."

Connor is too used to this gentle chiding to feel ashamed. "I won't let service slide," he says. 

Markus raises his hands as if to say, _No blame here_. He says, "I'll cover the floor if I can convince you to pull a few articles."

Connor grins. "Looks like someone else has a scoop." It's how he finds himself, tepid coffee in hand, scouring digitized articles. He's read most of the recent articles on the Deviant Killer and knows them back and forth. What he's searching for now is any _ other _ mention of the names of the victims, stretching back to the year the oldest one was born.

That's fifty-four years of records.

Victim one: Byron McCullers, 42.

Victim two: Dwayne Lovell, 39.

Victim three: Louis Wharton, 54.

Victim four: Anthony Prutzman, 27.

Victim five: Imran Shambhani, 48.

Victim six: Michael Wilson Grove, 33.

A baffling range of ages and backgrounds.

The only things the six had in common were the fact that they all lived in the Detroit Metro area, and each had brushes with the law.

Only two, Shambhani and Wharton, had obituaries. Both were on the older side of the age range. Wharton was described as "grandfather of Tate and Ava." Predeceased by a wife, Barbara Miller Wharton. Who, exactly, is the mother or father of the grandchildren isn't mentioned by name.

Which is a little strange, Connor thinks. Maybe they weren't in contact. For the millionth time, he wishes he had access to the police files. But he doesn't expect that to happen. Or, rather, he doesn't want to think about what Hank might ask him to do in order to get that access.

Connor closes the newspaper archive site.

He does a general web search for "Barbara Miller Wharton," and finds a memorial Facebook page. It hasn't been updated in six years. He scans the comments, most of them either condolences or links to lung disease charities. That explains something, at least.

The final comment was made by a Christine Temple. It draws Connor's attention because it's written in all caps:

HE KILLED HER.

Connor sits back, perturbed. He hovers the pointer over Christine Temple's name for a second or two before clicking. The profile is set to private. He sends a friend request anyway, but doesn't expect much.

When he searches "Imran Shambhani," only the obituary comes up. A wife, Mahira, is mentioned, as well as a son, Hamza. He searches "Mahira Shambhani," but that yields only the obit, as well.

A search for just "Shambhani" surprises him. There is a small article in the Detroit News about a house fire a few years ago. It mentions that a _ Mehira _ Shambhani, 42, was injured in the blaze...and that a Tahmina Shambhani, 19, was killed.

"Mr. Shambhani came home to find his house in flames."

Detroit is a big city; there's a good chance other families have that last name. That there is another Imran Shambhani, even. But if the reporter had spelled the name of Imran Shambhani's wife wrong, then they'd had a daughter who died in a house fire.

A daughter who wasn't mentioned in her father's obituary as having existed at all.

Connor transfers all of these links and articles to his thumb drive.

The internet search gives him one more hint: a Detroit News headline he'd somehow missed: "Teacher cleared in abuse case; accuser backs down."

According to the article, twenty-fourt-year-old Anthony Prutzman, a choir director and music teacher at Gloria O. Jackson High School, was cleared of charges that he had inappropriate sexual contact with a 15-year-old student. Apparently, the unnamed student had withdrawn his accusation, claiming it had been "a prank" because he had been angry at Prutzman.

Of course, because the student was a minor, the article doesn't identify him. 

But Connor notes his attorney _ is _ named. He saves this article, too.

The day is clipping along and he needs to hold up his part of the bargain with Markus. He digs out his phone and looks at the name he'd typed in: _ Elijah Kamski _.

As it turns out, this Kamski person is the fabulously wealthy owner of a conglomerate, a group of businesses that appears to have a number of contracts with the City of Detroit: infrastructure, parking, construction, even private security.

The Free Press broke a story of chemicals in tap water after Kamski's company replaced miles of pipeline. Now, the fact hundreds of Detroit homes are being fed tainted water after the pipe replacement job has been picked up by some national news outlets. People are sensitive to municipal water issues after Flint, of course.

Connor feels a flash of admiration for Markus, though it's not untainted by some jealousy. He's chasing down stories that affect the public good.

Connor has to stand back and remind himself that seeking justice for six people matters, too. Anyway, the Deviant Killer has been nationally known for far longer. Swallowing down his doubt and envy, he sends the local and national articles to Markus's email.

When he leaves the library after closing this evening, he'll spend all night editing his groundbreaking interview with Hank. And that's what matters now. That, and combing through his new finds for that golden nugget of information that will engage Hank again, will entice him back to the apartment.

Connor wants his find to be compelling enough that he can ask Hank to touch *him* this time. He wants to make himself a commodity: his compliance, his eagerness, his skin and breath—every place Hank's cock has filled and the place he still yearns to have filled. To ensure that Hank desires nothing—not even information or insight—more than he desires Connor himself.


	2. Chapter 2

The following week for Connor passes in a blur—a whirlwind of giddy advances. Out of nowhere, his first major advertiser approaches him. Before he can even think about it, he's signing the emailed contract and is given the first snippet of text to read.

Even though he doesn't have to, he promises to cut an ad break into the interview episode. It had been edited and ready, but he hastily slips the thirty-second slice of commercial promotion into the audio file to be uploaded this coming Friday.

With the first bump of money from the sponsor, he promises himself he'll buy a decent bottle of whiskey...hopefully to share with Hank. That this may be a ridiculous schoolboy crush on an authority figure who only intends to exploit him, he conveniently ignores.

It seems worth it when, early in the week, Christine Temple accepts his Facebook friend request. Connor barely has to introduce himself before she admits to being the daughter of victim number three, Louis Wharton.

She says she'd been keen to drop the name she'd grown up with. Defying belief, Christine has actually begun to listen to the podcast. 

Connor meets her in a Dunkin Donuts. She's young—_ so _ young—only twenty-one. Her seven-month-old, Ava, sleeps in a baby seat as they talk over coffee. Tate, who's two and a half, plays with mini creamers until they burst.

Connor manages to get hold of the reporter at the Detroit Free Press who covered the Shambhani house fire. She had been a recent graduate then, and now has more experience under her belt. To Connor's surprise, she tells him that she wishes she'd followed up.

Imran Shambhani had been oddly willing to speak to her, despite the fact that his wife had been hospitalized with serious burns over part of her body, and that his daughter was dead.

What disturbs her most is something Imran had said that she didn't include in the article. The reporter tells Connor he'd said of his wife's injuries: "Maybe she should not have tried so much to get to our daughter."

Then, apparently, he'd shrugged.

Connor feels a sickening chill in the pit of his stomach, as if icicles hang there, sharp and frosty.

He has no luck with the attorney who'd represented Anthony Prutzman's underage accuser. Over a bottle of wine on a solitary Thursday evening, he mulls a gambit that may end up biting him in the ass.

Regardless, by the end of the night, he makes a decision. Before he's sober enough to regret it, he makes an anonymous post on a true crime forum setting himself up as an author writing a book about the Deviant Killer. It's not *too* much of a stretch, really. 

He asks forum members for information on the victims. The appeal ends with "...especially anyone who has direct knowledge of the victims' criminal convictions, or of any unprosecuted crimes you believe they could have been involved in."

He closes his Macbook before he has time to reconsider and delete the post.

Friday morning finds Connor in bed, still in his clothes from the previous night. The empty bottle and stained wine glass sit on his nightstand, looking morose. He winces at the terrible taste in his mouth.

The interview episode is set to launch around noon.

Connor dreads the upcoming day at the library, trying to pretend he's interested in patron requests or Markus's running commentary on local political corruption and shady business practices. All he _really_ wants to do is watch his stats and wait to hear what Hank has to say.

Not that he and Hank had made an agreement on when they would speak again. All he'd said was, "I'll be in touch," and Connor had been too overwhelmed and aroused to demand greater detail.

He suspects, in any case, that very few people *demand* things from Hank Anderson.

As the sun disappears that evening and the horizon fades from gray to the orange-tinted black of urban light pollution, Connor sits in his bed with the laptop warming his thighs, wrangling the flood of comments on the show's Twitter account and fighting disappointment. Of course, it's idiotic to expect a busy police lieutenant on the case of a lifetime to suspend his investigation and congratulate a third-tier podcaster. What would Hank even offer in a call?

_ Hey, kid, glad my voice can get you some attention_.

He wouldn't know what effect the interview had on Connor's numbers. And, frankly, it isn't his concern.

Connor is finally opening an internal door and letting the crushing defeat trickle in, admitting to himself that he doesn't occupy a huge swath of space in Hank's mind. Or at least not one as enormous as Hank takes up in _ his_.

What he'd given to Hank might not have been exceptional, or even outside the lieutenant's normal routine.

He's closing browser tabs for the night, considering a drink, when his phone rings. It's a Detroit area code, and his heart leaps.

"Connor Stern," he answers, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice.

"Good evening, _ Connor Stern_." Hank's voice is the same low growl, sounding amused and possibly a bit mocking.

Maybe Connor is imagining that. He's so immediately engaged, every muscle trembling, that he dismisses the thought immediately. "Hank," he says, relishing saying the name aloud to its owner. "Did you hear the episode?"

"I'm sure you handled it."

"So...no?"

Hank chuckles darkly. "If I had any spare time, I wouldn't spend it listening to my own voice," he says. "I know what I said."

"But you've got spare time to call me," Connor says, hoping he sounds bolder than he feels.

Another low laugh. "Touché," Hank tells him.

In the brief pause that follows, Connor recoups his nerve. "I've been doing some research this week."

Hank huffs. "I'd be disappointed if you were doing otherwise. Find anything intriguing?"

Now it becomes tricky: what Connor divulges and what he withholds.

"Yeah," he says. "I think so. Managed to talk to Christine Temple. She's Louis Wharton's daughter. Says Wharton used to abuse his wife—Barbara. Christine got married at eighteen just to get out of the house after her mother died. Official cause of death was COPD."

Hank makes a low humming noise. "Barbara Wharton smoked for decades," he says. "She'd already been diagnosed with lung disease. She used an oxygen tank."

"Christine said—" Connor began.

"That Louis could have smothered her with a pillow?" Hank asks.

Connor flails for a moment. "I mean...yes."

"Death by COPD is slow suffocation," Hank says. "If he didn't do it, her body would have."

To Connor's shame, his eyes sting with tears.

"Tell me more," Hank says, indulgent. "You still might earn what you're after."

With a ragged breath, Connor shores up his courage and plows ahead. 

_ Why is he so goddamn desperate for this man's approval? _

"Imran Shambhani," he says. "The reporter who covered the house fire that killed his daughter seemed pretty convinced he wasn't torn up about it."

"He wasn't," Hank says right away. "Mahira backed it up when we spoke to her after his death. She's been convinced he set the fire for years, but she was terrified of him. So was his son. Before he died, Imran had nearly convinced Hamza to cut off all contact with his mother."

"Was there evidence of an accelerant?" Connor chokes out.

"Was ruled accidental," Hank tells him. "An electrical short. They do think it started in Tahmina's room. Mahira's pretty sure Imran drugged their daughter before he set the fire."

"Jesus," Connor mutters.

"Strike two, sweetheart," Hank says, his voice nearly a purr. "Do you have anything else for me?"

As laden as he is with disappointment and frustration, Connor can't help but feel a sharp stab of arousal at the pet name.

_ Sweetheart_.

He clears his throat, sniffs hard. "Did Prutzman intimidate his victim into keeping quiet?"

"Mmm. Indeed." Hank sounds like he's _ enjoying _ making Connor squirm and suffer. "We spoke to young Mr. Allen after Prutzman's body was found. He was thankful to be free."

Connor squeezes his eyes shut. His mind is reeling. *Allen* is the boy's last name. Through the hurricane of his thoughts, he tries to commit that one fact to memory.

"You're all out of strikes, young man," Hank says. "But I have faith in you. We've only just started."

What little relief the reassurance gives Connor, all of it flees when Hank speaks again.

"Tell me," he says, "was it you who put out a call for information on the message board? It seems a bit premature to be writing a book on the case before it's resolved. Don't you think?"

Connor's heart drops, heavy as a lead weight. "Fuck." It's out of his mouth before he can rein himself in.

That draws a laugh from Hank. "We monitor all of those forums in case our killer wants to boast. Helps us identify and ferret out possible copycats, too." Hank tuts.

Connor can almost see him shaking his head, can read the disappointment on his face.

"Next time, 'CrimeWriter91,'" Hank says, "hide your IP address."

"I'll get more," Connor says. He hates that he sounds so strained and desperate.

"Oh, I know you will," Hank tells him. "And I will, too." He pauses, the silence thick. "Did you think about me this week? Replay our meeting in your mind? Did you like being on your knees for me?"

"Yes," Connor says. He furiously thumbs away the tear that slips down his cheek.

"Good. Very good. You've got tenacity, I'll say that."

Connor doesn't feel tenacious. He feels like an utter failure, and is suddenly grateful they're only talking on the phone instead of face-to-face.

"It's admirable," Hank says. He pauses. "Finger yourself for me, Connor."

"Wha—what do you mean?"

There's a noise on the other end of the line, maybe a chair squeaking as Hank sits forward.

"I want you to put a finger in your ass," Hank says, enunciating each word. "Right now. Can you do that?"

Breathing out hard, Connor says, "Yes. Yes, Hank."

"Go on."

Almost dropping the phone in his haste, Connor shoves his computer off his lap and goes for the bedside table drawer for the bottle of lube he keeps there. It nearly slips from his sweaty fingers. Placing the phone gently on the mattress for a moment, he shimmies his lounge pants down over his hips, then pops the cap on the little bottle and drizzles some of the shining liquid over his forefinger.

Christ, he's half-hard already.

"I'm waiting," he hears Hank say.

Scrambling, Connor seizes the phone again and brings it to his ear. He knows Hank can hear his heavy, rapid breath.

Slowly as he dares, he dips his hand between his trembling thighs, sighing as his fingertip brushes the delicate skin. He's no virgin; he's done this before. But somehow, having Hank directing him makes it all feel new, with the same heart-pounding rush as a first time. A thin and high-pitched noise escapes his lips as he pushes his finger inside the smooth warmth of his own body, to the second knuckle.

Hank hums, a greedy sound. "Are you doing what I want?" he asks Connor.

"Yes. Yes." Connor very nearly leaps from the bed when the screen of his Macbook lights up with a FaceTime request. "Is that—?"

A low laugh from Hank. "Show me," he says.

Connor is terrified, but he doesn't dare hesitate. He accepts the call.

Hank's face, graced with a languid smile, fills the screen. His authority is easy, absolute. Breathtaking. "C'mon, baby. Let me see."

His skin burning with combined shame and arousal, Connor sets the phone down and pulls his lounge pants off entirely. He's barely able to look at Hank as he places his feet on either side of the laptop's screen and tilts his hips upward, cock tapping his belly and balls drawn up tight.

"Oh, that's sweet," Hank mutters.

Connor ventures a glance between his knees.

"Spread your ass for me, honey," Hank tells him. "Show me everything."

Connor has been holding his breath so long his lungs burn. With his free hand, he reaches down to pull one cheek aside, putting himself on full view.

"Good," Hank tells him. "_ So _ good."

Unprompted, Connor slides the finger deeper inside, unable to stop a whine from leaving his throat.

"Yeah," Hank says. "Go on and fuck yourself a little."

Spurred on by that rumbling voice, Connor can do nothing but obey. He winces at the slick sounds that result.

"You follow instructions so well," Hank tells him, speaking over the tantalizing, rhythmic sliding of his finger. "I've got high hopes for you, Connor. With your bright mind and your tight little body."

Connor is aching, leaking over his bare, pale belly.

"Put another finger in," Hank says.

Right away, Connor does. He wants it to bring relief, but it only makes his desperation spike. He's sighing out small, breathy moans each time his fingers plunge inside.

"Have you ever come from only this?" Hank asks. "Without touching your cock?"

Connor whines, shakes his head. It's all he can manage.

"You will," Hank tells him. "Next time we meet, I'll put you over your kitchen table there and make you come on my fingers."

"Please!" Connor begs, his voice strained.

"Not yet, baby boy. Keep up the good work. Tell your audience what you've learned. Let them come to you. If you find something good in a few days, call me. Maybe we can arrange a visit."

"Hank," Connor says. "I need—"

But a tone sounds and the screen goes dark. Hank is gone.

Connor lets his head fall back against the pillow and groans in frustration. His body is screaming for release. Remembering Hank's dark, filthy promise, he crooks his fingers deep inside his body, searching for the place that will send lightning arcing through his muscles. Really, he should try for longer, but the fact that the fingers inside him don't belong to Hank, that the immediacy of that deep voice is fading from his mind, makes him unable to imagine finishing without touching his cock.

With a sigh, he wraps sweating fingers around it. Then, at least, he finds the necessary pressure—the stimulation that will finally send him over the edge. No more than five pumps of his hand later and he's coming all over his belly and his fist, dirtying the hem of his shirt.

He's fairly sure he calls Hank's name.

**

The name in his head as he wakes up the next morning—disoriented and come-sticky—is a different one, however.

_ Allen_.

The last name of Anthony Prutzman's victim. It's a common enough surname, but Connor can narrow it down. He knows the school and the boy's approximate age. 

After making a pot of strong coffee and cleaning himself up, Connor sits on his couch with his laptop and Detroit's public radio station playing in the background. On a search for Gloria O. Jackson High School, he finds an alumni social networking page.

"Find and Connect With Your Classmates!" the banner at the top of the page declares. He needs to sign up for an account to interact with and message Jackson High alums.

After several minutes of inner debate—Hank can't be monitoring *this* page—he clicks "Create Profile." Luckily, the required information is minimal. Connor uploads a photo of himself wearing sunglasses. With a few fabrications entered in the registration form, "Nick Sturgis" is allowed onto the page.

Under the "Search by Name" function, he clicks on "A."

There are three entries with the last name of Allen. He strikes one off the list immediately, as the guy graduated in 2004. Another one was in the class of 2015. In all likelihood, he was too old then (and isn't that a disgusting thought?) to have been in Prutzman's age range.

Still, Connor marks the profile.

The final entry is a girl—a young woman now, he thinks—who graduated in 2016. Ebony Allen. After taking a deep breath and a hefty slug of coffee, Connor messages both Ebony and the 2015 graduate with the same question.

_Hey, how is your brother doing?_

There is, of course, a chance that neither of these people is related to the victim. Connor can understand if he doesn't want to relive the fear-permeated days of his high school career by signing up to connect with classmates.

But it's worth a shot. He needs to find something. To _ own _ something that Hank does not.

The admission that his paramount goal is to use whatever information he finds as leverage—forcing Hank to touch _ him _ and bring _ him _ to satisfaction—is an uncomfortable one. As much as Connor wants to sit around and wait for a development, he realizes it's useless and will drive him stir-crazy. 

He settles for downloading the Classmate Connection app and turning on notifications. Then, he calls Markus and asks if he wants to hang out.

At first, when Markus says he and North are planning to do some "urban exploration" around an abandoned industrial site recently purchased by one of Elijah Kamski's companies, Connor is tempted to decline.

Until he gets a better sense of the location.

"You're kidding!" he tells Markus, practically shouting with excitement. "That place?"

It's obvious Markus is caught off guard. "Yeah...uh, what's special about it?"

"Dude," Connor says, his heart pounding, "one of the Deviant Killer's victims was discovered on that site."

Markus chuckles. "Well, great, I guess. Wear good shoes and clothes you don't mind getting dirty."

Clad in old jeans and a pair of old hiking boots, Connor meets up with Markus and North at a longstanding and neighborhood-famous Jamaican restaurant across town. As it turns out, Markus knows the owner, who will let them leave their cars while they make the trek to the site. A meat pie or two will make a great reward after slogging through some industrial wasteland, Connor thinks.

North hugs him when they meet up. In her ripped jeans, tank top, and thick-soled boots, she looks like Lara Croft. Her auburn hair lies in a thick braid over one shoulder. She really is beautiful.

If Connor were attracted to women, he can imagine being wildly jealous of Markus.Then again, if he hadn't already tried dating Markus, he might be jealous of North. They are as stunning together as each one is separately.

Connor is definitely not sure Markus would understand what he sees in Hank. He's reluctant to say anything about it. Fortunately, he can disguise his fervor as excitement about the Deviant Killer case. The "cause of justice," more broadly.

Feeling like a bit of an impostor, Connor sets out with Markus and North toward the site. Watery sunshine trickles through the pale clouds overhead. On the western horizon, the clouds are much darker. Connor listens for a rumble of thunder.

The former GM assembly plant is newly ringed with a chain-link fence studded with forbidding signs warning trespassers of danger beyond. The signs likely are not put up in vain; aside from an attempt to dissuade scrap hunters or rowdy kids, these old industrial sites often hide deposits of toxic chemicals.

Connor remembers a story from when he was a kid about someone venturing into an old auto plant. The guy supposedly fell into an old basement hidden by debris and was injured. According to the account Connor heard, he’d screamed for help, but no one heard his cries. His rag-shrouded skeleton was discovered years later when the site was excavated.

It may have been an urban legend. Young Connor had been utterly fascinated by it nonetheless. His fascination with death—especially violent death—had begun early.

He feels a little trepidation now, watching Markus squeeze through a gap created by a bent fence post and step into the rubble beyond. But he follows, because curiosity outweighs everything else.

"What are we looking for?" he asks.

"Something worth putting a fence around," Markus answers. "This is recent. Some reporter was caught poking around. They let her go because it wasn't clear it was private property."

"She find anything notable?" asks Connor.

Markus stops and turns. "Well, that's the thing," he says, and casts a glance at North.

"I know her," North says. "She works for the city's free paper. Well, she _ did _. Nobody's seen Mallory for more than a week."

Connor stops short, as well. "You don't think...Kamski...?"

Markus shakes his head. A faraway peal of thunder sounds behind the city's skyline. "I don't think anything right now. But North and I figured it was important to check it out."

Breathing out, Connor says, "No shit."

North flips her thick braid from her shoulder and forges ahead.

As they walk deeper into the site, it seems to swallow the surrounding developments, giving the impression of an apocalyptic landscape as apartment blocks and stores vanish in favor of gutted buildings. Some of the cement-block structures on what had at one point been a huge industrial campus still stand, though the wind picks up and whistles through their empty window frames. The glass is long gone and broken; most of those that were boarded up are broken yet again. Even the garish colors of the graffiti layered over nearly every surface are faded. Urban artists have long since moved to more fertile ground.

Connor can only glance up when he stops moving, as he's terrified of a misstep that might send him tumbling into sharp debris.

As he and Markus and North slowly pick their way through the site, however, it becomes clear that anything of value—especially metal—has been stripped away. What remains now is the mere skeleton of the place, gradually turning to powder. Gray takes over.

Under a gray and rain-scented sky, Connor feels an itchy sense of something _ missing_. Not just gone, though, but taken by force.

Markus's voice cuts through the hush. "You have any idea where they found the body?" he asks.

"Huh?" Connor asks. "Body?"

Laughing, Markus says, "You said they found a victim of the Deviant Killer here."

"Oh, yeah. No." Connor tries to shake the fog out of his head. "All they said was that it was the old GM northwest plant. No other details."

"There are six victims, right?" North asks.

"That police know of," Connor tells her. He's half-joking when he asks, "Do you listen to DtR?"

She gives a rare smile. "Oh, sure. Markus and I listen together. I did it as a favor at first, but it's really interesting."

Connor is flattered. He returns the grin. "If I had a, well, significant other," he says, "I'd make him listen to 'The Revolution,' too."

"Still single, buddy?" Markus asks. It's not confrontational.

Even so, Connor finds himself on guard. "I'm sort of seeing someone. We talked a lot before we met." That's a lie, but he's stretching it to include his previous fruitless attempts to get in touch with Hank. It does feel like he's known the man a long time. Or, rather, had an idea of the man in his mind that has turned out to be both more and less true than he'd expected.

"How many times have you met up with him?" asks Markus.

"Just once. He's very...forward." Connor arches an eyebrow, trying to make it seem like Hank Anderson is more suave and seductive and less outright terrifying. To tell himself that he doesn't _ enjoy _ the threat.

"Is that so?" asks Markus. "Older guy?"

"A little." The truth is, Connor doesn't know Hank's age—he could be anywhere from forty-five to sixty. It _ truly _ does not matter. What he wants, he plans to have.

"So," Markus prompts, winking, "pretty 'big' deal, huh?"

Huffing a laugh, North socks him on the shoulder. "Markus, you fucking perv."

Connor licks his lips, the memory still fresh. "_Huge _ deal, actually."

"Whoa!" Markus holds up a hand and the two high-five as North rolls her eyes.

"Men," she says. "I swear to God."

Connor saunters ahead, still relishing the high that the very idea of Hank gives him. He's in too deep, far too deep. Through the pleasant fog in his brain, he barely hears North's warning shout before he loses his footing, tipping down a rough slope into a shallow crater. He lands hard on his hip, and the surface his skin contacts isn't flat but rugged. Later, he'll be able to see the purple points that took the hardest impacts like a cluster of stars on his skin.

Breathless, Connor catches himself with both hands, skinning the palms. He rolls to a sitting position, hissing at the sting of abraded skin. "Ow. _ Fuck_." A few patches on the heels of his hands begin to ooze sluggish blood.

Markus's worried face appears over the lip of the crater. "Holy shit. Are you okay?"

Gingerly, Connor dusts his hands off. He frowns. "Yeah. Should have been watching where I was going." For the first time, he takes a second to look around. He's sitting in a hole maybe three feet deep, gouged out of concrete. There's debris at the lip—chunks and flakes—as if the pit had been dug by a jackhammer.

North, also peering over, wrinkles her nose. "What's that smell?" she asks.

It's only then that Connor notices: emanating from the center of the crater is a faint sickly-sweet odor, like a garbage dumpster but somehow _ richer _. Closer to spoiled meat. It's not overwhelming, but he's still grateful for the damp gust of wind that scoops the smell out of the crater for a moment and carries it over the site.

"Not sure," he says. Using only his fingertips to push himself upright, he struggles to his feet. It affords a better vantage. The hole he stands in is located roughly in the center of a haphazard patch of cement. Its borders are jagged, like it was just dumped there with no thought to design or caution. Maybe it had been part of a walkway or decorative feature.

Another puff of air slides inside the bowl. It moves a scrap of something. Connor bends to pick the thing up. He's pretty sure it's fabric, but there's no way to tell what kind. All he knows is that the smell gets much stronger as he holds the scrap up to examine it.

With a noise of disgust, he drops it and it sails to the opposite lip of the pit. Thunder sounds again, much closer and louder this time.

"We'd better head back," North says. "I don't want to be here in the rain."

Markus leans over and reaches out a hand. "Need help?"

When Connor steps toward the outstretched hand, he nearly trips. Looking down, he sees that the sole of one of his hiking boots is almost completely detached, torn from the nylon fabric of the upper part. They're old, but they were expensive when he bought them.

"Dammit."

Markus makes a sympathetic noise.

"We're not carrying you," North tells him, but it’s lighthearted.

Connor huffs, feeling less jokey. "I'm fine,” he says. Favoring the foot with the busted boot, he moves to grab Markus's hand, but pauses to snatch the scrap of reeking fabric from the edge of the hole.

He stuffs it in his pocket, then he's up and out. However, a look back makes his pulse pick up. "Hey, guys?" he calls.

Markus and North, who had begun to walk away, turn back.

"Not sure if you noticed," Connor says, "but this concrete is _ fresh_."

They all stop for a moment, letting the horrific implications sink in.

"When was the victim discovered here?" Markus asks him.

Tiny raindrops begin to fall on Connor's face, sticking in his eyelashes. He looks up at the darkening sky. "Last October. But he wasn't in concrete, I don’t think."

Markus rubs his chin absently. "Kamski didn't own this site back then," he says. "The city did."

"Well," Connor says, "it looks like _ someone _ wanted something out of of here before the sale went down. Whatever it was, they didn't want Kamski to find it."

North sniffs. "Or _ whoever _ it was."

Connor feels a chill, like frigid wind. He looks back at the pit, its concrete now dotted with pinprick raindrops. "Yeah." He frowns. "Maybe that's what your friend Mallory saw."

"Don't know," North says. "But we should get moving."

Markus and North pick their way back, with Connor trying his best to follow them as the sole of his boot flaps awkwardly. When they've squeezed back through the fence—unnoticed as far as Connor can tell—his phone buzzes in his back pocket.

He stops walking and hurries to dig the phone out; it hasn't occurred to him until now to check if it was damaged in his tumble into the crater. When he sees that the screen is undamaged, he lets out a shaky sigh. The notification bubble is headlined _ Classmate Connection _. Fatter raindrops splash onto the phone's screen as Connor stabs at it.

"Con!" Markus calls. "Hurry up! We're going to get soaked."

Connor finally plants his ass in the back seat as the rain starts coming down in earnest. He wipes off his phone screen. The message is from Ebony Allen:

_ hi Nick. thank you for asking about Jamel. he is doing better but they are not letting him out of the hospital yet. _

_i really appreciate you asking how he is doing. if you have time to see him maybe he would like to see you too. _

She goes on:

_ it would lift his spirits to know his friends are thinking about him in this difficult time. u are very sweet. _

_best, Ebony xoxo _

Connor _does_ want to see Jamel Allen, if only to find out why he's in the hospital.

The car slows as the rain comes in torrents.

_ Hello, Ebony_, Connor types. _ I'm so glad Jamel is okay. Yes, I would like to see him if you think he wants to see me. What hospital is he in? _

He very nearly signs off with his real name before remembering he's supposed to be someone else. A guy who doesn't exist.

Within seconds, Ebony writes back: 

_ Nick thanks. he's in Sini (sp?) Grace (sorry i can't look it up right now, on a very quick break from work!) _

After sending back a quick _ Okay_, Connor asks Markus and North about the hospital. He's never heard of it, either.

With a laugh, North says, "Sinai-Grace, genius. You got a hot tip?"

"Something like that," Connor mumbles. His hands are scabbing over, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. It feels like someone took a hammer to his hip. All he wants to do is go back to bed. But he needs more, he needs _ something _ to reel Hank in, to make him anxious to come to the apartment again. The fact that his podcast is very swiftly becoming an afterthought compared to the towering, solid threat-inside-a-promise that is Hank Anderson occurs to Connor, too.


	3. Chapter 3

Instead of retreating to his bed to rest after the expedition to the GM plant, within minutes of being dropped off at his building Connor finds himself in his own car, headed northwest toward Rosedale Park as his phone GPS guides him. He'd put on a pair of loafers back at his place, but it's still raining.

After a stop at the store, he laces up the stiff new boots in the wet parking lot. They'd set him back almost a hundred dollars, but there was no way in hell he'd go tramping out into industrial wastelands again in sneakers or secondhand Toms, for fuck's sake.

And he _ will _ go back, to the GM site and to others. Land deeds are public record; Connor can find the lots that Elijah Kamski owns.

Whether it's the Deviant Killer or something else shady, he's as sure as Markus is that this guy is not on the up and up.

With the boots secured, Connor tosses his loafers in the back. On the passenger seat rests a blue teddy bear holding a balloon on a plastic stick. It's awful, tasteless, but it was the only thing he could find that wasn't birthday-themed or something. Maybe in the confusion of illness or injury, Jamel will believe they've met before.

The hospital corridors reek of disinfectant and new paint. Connor slips through them. Or, rather, he tries; the treads of his new shoes squeal on the linoleum.

Jamel Allen is alone in the room, but the other bed is unmade, a lunch tray beside it forgotten.

Connor enters the dark space as quietly as he can. "Jamel?" he half-whispers.

"Dad?"

His heart clenching with the guilt of the deception, Connor says, "No. I'm, uh, a friend from Jackson High."

When he steps into the light, Jamel frowns. "You ain't no high school student."

_ Shit_.

Connor holds the ridiculous bear down by his side, half-hidden behind his leg. "No," he says. "Sorry. You can kick me out if you want to."

"Well, who are you?"

"My name's Connor. I'm looking into the, um, Deviant Killer."

Unexpectedly, Jamel's expression shifts. It's very nearly a smile. "You that podcast guy."

Jamel is thin, and his skin has a grayish cast to it. But his eyes twinkle with mischief, and Connor fields a wave of sadness and anger at that asshole Prutzman for trying to put that light out. If he could have been the one to stomp Prutzman's windpipe into paste, he's pretty sure he would have enjoyed it.

"Yeah," Connor says. "You listen?"

"I have been," Jamel tells him. "In a weird way, it helps. I hate hearing the guy's name, you know?"

Connor nods.

"But," Jamel says, "I like hearing over and over that he's dead. How he died."

"Yeah," Connor says. "I would, too." He shakes his head, then adds, "I _ do _."

"What did those other guys do? The other ones he killed. You ain't talked about what they did yet."

At that, Connor ventures a tiny smile. "I'm going to in the next episode. But I'll give you a special preview."

He pulls a chair up to Jamel's bedside and tells him about Louis Wharton, how his daughter was so sure he'd killed her mother that she married at 18 just to get out.

He talks about Tahmina Shambhani, whose mother hadn't been sure if she was sleeping or already dead when she walked into an inferno that scarred her hands and face and made her half blind.

Byron McCullers, the landlord whose negligence killed three of his tenants. And Dwayne Lovelle, who preyed on teen girls. And Michael Wilson Grove, the care home worker who ran a phone scam to leave seniors destitute.

It's hard and ugly, what Connor's research has turned up.

But Jamel needs to know he isn't the only victim. Not by a long shot. He sits grave-faced and still as Connor finishes. After a moment, he says, "I can't be the only one who thinks maybe this guy is doing the world some good."

Connor considers—not whether it's true but whether to agree out loud. Then he says, "You're not. But it's still our job to catch him, to ask him why."

_ Our _ job...like he's another cop on the task force. But Hank has invited his help. Forced his hand, even.

"I get you," Jamel says.

After a pause, Connor feels comfortable enough to ask what happened, why Jamel is here.

He gives a winsome smile. A single loc falls over his forehead, making him look so very young. "After...Anthony died, I should have felt relief. But it was like everything that built up just busted out all at the same time. It was too much. I took some pills."

Connor nods, unsure what to say.

"My sister found me," Jamel continues. "She's my hero. She's my champion."

"Ebony," Connor says.

"Uh-huh. She the one you talked to?"

Another nod. "Sure did. She really loves you, man."

"I didn't really want to die," Jamel says. “Just needed a break." He grins again. "Hey, what name do I give her when I tell her you stopped by?"

Connor lets go of a relieved laugh. "Nick Sturgis."

"Yeah, yeah," Jamel says, his eyes crinkling with mirth. "'Nick.' We was in Chess Club together."

Connor picks up the hideous blue stuffed bear. "What should I do with this?"

"Dunno, man. That thing's pretty ugly."

"Sorry."

Jamel waves over at the empty bed. "That kid over there would probably like it. You can leave it for her."

Smiling, Connor tucks the bear next to the pillow on the vacant bed. He turns back to Jamel. "I hope you get better soon. Don't let this guy keep running your life." He worries afterward that it sounds a bit strident.

But Jamel says, "Nah. I'm free now."

Before Connor walks out, he stops one last time. "Were you really in Chess Club?"

"Psh." Jamel makes a face. "Bitch, I _ ran _ Chess Club."

Connor grins. His heart feels full—painfully so. 

**

Outside the hospital entrance, the rain has let up. The blanket of clouds slips here and there to reveal peeks of blue sky. Standing in the growing warmth, Connor takes stock. He shifts his weight to his left foot; the new boots are rubbing a blister on his right heel.

The possible gravesite at the old plant was a revelation. But there's a good possibility it has nothing to do with the Deviant Killer case. He's stumbled into a new angle for Markus's podcast, but has found nothing for his own. 

While the visit with Jamel felt good, it yielded no new information.

He sighs, checks the time. There's a missed call notification on his phone. A local number, but not the same one from which Hank had called the night before. He hesitates, his thumb hovering over the number for a few seconds before he presses it.

On the other end, it rings four times. A gravelly voice answers before it goes to voicemail. "Are you recording this call?" the man asks.

"Uh, no? Are you sure you have the right number?"

"This is Stern, right?" the man asks. "With the podcast?"

Connor's pulse jumps. He feels it thudding in his temples.

"Yeah. Who's this?" The fact that it's _ not _ Hank is momentarily disappointing.

Then, the guy says, "Let's just say I'm an insider. I've got information you might be able to use."

"Why don't you go to the police?" Connor asks. "They're not gonna make it public." After looking over both shoulders to make sure no one is in earshot, Connor lowers his voice near a whisper and asks, "Are you the Deviant Killer?"

The guy laughs, a startling sound. "No, dipshit. Are _ you _?"

A little stung, Connor replies, "No."

"Didn't think so."

The Insider goes on. "I gotta get this stuff out there. Things are stalled out right now."

_ You're a cop _, Connor thinks, but he keeps it to himself. He may not be able to find out anything Hank doesn't know, but this guy could give him info the task force is keeping hushed up. "Great," he says. "I'm listening."

"Don't record any calls," the Insider says. "No texting, no emails. Don't call this number back again. I contact you, not the other way around. Okay?"

"Fine," Connor tells him. "How do I know you're not bullshitting me?"

"Well," says the Insider, "guess you're just going to have to trust me. _ If _ you actually want to catch this sick motherfucker and you're not just doing this for subscriptions or whatever."

Indignant, Connor says, "Of course I do."

"Good, great. Couple of things."

"You writing this down?" the Insider asks.

_ Trick question_.

"No," Connor says. "No records."

"Good. Vic number one, McCullers, right?"

"Yeah. Second body found. On the old GM lot."

"Correct," says the Insider. "Because he was buried."

"Buried?" asks Connor.

"Basically. Under a chunk of concrete."

Connor's heart drops. "Wait, he poured concrete over him?"

"No," says the Insider. "I mean, like, dug under it, shoved the body in there, and filled it back in."

A slight disappointment, but it still didn't rule out Kamski. "Gotcha."

"Yeah," the Insider continues. "He might have lasted there all winter if he hadn't started...leaking."

Connor looks around him again. "Hyoid bone intact?"

"No. But it might have been the beating. Guy's head was nearly pulp."

“Jesus. What else?"

"Greedy little shit, aren't you?" the Insider says, dismissive.

"Hey," Connor tells him, testy now. "You came to _ me _, okay?"

A pause. "Yeah. One more tip for now. You put these out and see what happens. I'll get back to you after the episode goes up."

"Deal," says Connor. "Go on."

There's another pause, almost as if the man on the other end is glancing around, too. Then: "Between Vic Three and Vics Four through Six, the boot changed."

"_What_?"

"Different tread marks on Wharton's neck compared to the others." After a beat, the Insider says, "It's not 100% clear, but it might not even be the same size."

"Shit," Connor breathes. "So either he got wise and started wearing the wrong size boot on purpose, or..."

"Or there are two of them," the Insider finishes.

Connor swallows audibly. "Well, fuck me."

"No thanks, kid," says the Insider. "Just don't fuck _ me_, you hear?"

"No, no way. This is great. I'll record tonight."

"Good."

"Can I call you something?" Connor asks. "I dunno...Deep Throat?"

"Slow down, there, Bob fucking Woodward. Don't get too big for your britches. Your little podcast is a tool to solve this thing. That's all."

This "Insider," Connor thought, sounded like a tool himself.

"But," the guy said, "I guess you can call me Gavin."

The giddiness takes a long while to fade after Connor hangs up with “Gavin,” if that is really his name. He could search for cops with that name; it isn’t a common one, anyway. But part of him wants to preserve the mystique of having an inside informant.

The pain of the incipient blister fades into the background as he walks toward his car. Halfway there, he stops and deletes the record of the missed call and his return call. Of course, the record will still exist somewhere, but at least he can make it harder to find.

At home, Connor sheds sticky clothes that now smell both of hospital and slightly of decay. Though he’s not sure he’ll have to throw away the shirt and jeans, it does remind him to take the scrap of fabric out of his pocket and slip it into a plastic bag. In a confined space, the odor is much stronger. Connor winces and seals the bag.

In his cramped shower, he lets the steaming water course over him until it gets hard to breathe. He scrubs his skin even pinker, trying to expel any remaining smell. It’s important.

He plans to contact Hank. The shred of fabric soaked with decomp fluids will serve as the bait, the explosive information from Gavin the hook.

Before making the call, with the sunset breaking into vibrant pink and orange shreds amid the clouds, he sets up the coffee maker.

Next to it, he places a half-full bottle of decent bourbon, another enticement. His heart hammering loud in his ears, Connor brings up the list of recents on his phone and taps Hank’s number.

“Connor,” he says, his voice low and liquid.

In response, Connor feels molten heat pool in his belly as his cock twitches.

“What do you have for me?” asks Hank.

“Don’t have it,” Connor says, shocked at how readily he’s able to tease Hank. “Not the thing itself. What I have is a clue.”

Hank comes back right away with savage ease. “Oh, I’m not sure you _ do _ have a clue, boy.”

Connor will _ not _ allow himself to be stung or cowed. “It’s fine if you don’t want it,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant.

Promise and dark threat intertwine in Hank’s response. “I’m sure you know by now that I want it,” he says.

“I have it here, wrapped up for you.” Connor is skirting the edge of overkill with the porn dialogue, but he’s past caring.

Hank is scenting his prey regardless. “Maybe I’ll stop by. You can show it to me.”

_ Yes _ . Oh, lord, Connor _ wants _. “If you like it,” he says, “maybe I’ll let you have it.”

“That so?” Hank sounds amused. Then his tone darkens again. “What if I just take it?”

Connor can hardly breathe. “I don’t think I could stop you,” he whispers.

“Wait there,” Hank instructs. “Get your equipment ready to record. I may have something for you. And _ maybe _ your audience.”

“Yes, Hank,” Connor blurts out. But he’s not certain Hank is still there.

Soon, though—soon—he’d be _ here_. Connor feels dizzy with the imminence of it. Hank is some kind of drug; the thought of him, his voice, his attention—they spur him to risk more and more just to get his next fix. If he’s afraid of what Hank might do, or what he’s capable of, the thoughts are banished to a foggy place at the back of his mind.

Connor waits, and quivers down to his very bones as he does. After what seems like hours, the buzzer sounds from downstairs. He leaps to his feet, but at the last second decides not to go downstairs.

A few moments after he hits the button he hears heavy steps on the stairs. In the span of less than two weeks, he’s forgotten how enormous Hank is. His frame fills the doorway and his scent tumbles in: skin, cologne, and sour-sweet perspiration.

Connor’s mouth waters. “Coffee?” he asks. “There’s bourbon.”

Hank quietly closes the door. Then he turns and reaches out, taking Connor by the back of the neck in a possessive hold and drawing him closer. The grip allows for no negotiation. “So good for me, aren’t you?” Hank asks, the soft brush of his beard electric against Connor’s neck.

Connor isn’t sure if it’s a thanks for the coffee and liquor, or if Hank is ensuring his cooperation for later. “I am,” he manages.

Hank releases him with a wolfish smile. “I’ll help myself to coffee. Why don’t you show me your little treasure?” He very nearly winks.

Connor knows he’s talking about the scrap of cloth, but the request sounds filthy. He shudders at the same time that his cock stirs.

He retrieves the little baggie and holds it out to Hank, who takes it with his free hand and holds it up to the light.

He frowns. “What’s the story?”

Connor takes a breath, then runs down his illicit venture into the rubble-strewn GM site. The hole in the concrete, the smell, the missing reporter. Given the way Hank’s eyebrows rise when he hears “concrete,” he’s thinking about McCullers. To know that now, because of Gavin, makes Connor feel privileged.

As an afterthought, Connor tells him about Markus and North, though he doesn’t give their names. 

By the end of it, Hank is very clearly engaged and waiting for more.

Connor can barely modulate his voice; the excitement feels thick in the air.

“Impressive,” Hank says. He’s said it before—then brought Connor’s assurance crashing to the ground. But this time, he nods and favors Connor with a solicitous glance. With deliberate slowness, he folds the baggie and slips it into his jacket pocket.

To Connor’s pleased surprise, Hank slides the jacket from his shoulders. It falls to the floor and he leaves it there. Connor doesn’t dare touch it.

“Start recording,” Hank tells him. “I think you’ve earned a little reward for your persistence.

Connor is oddly disappointed that Hank wants to record, but he needs the continued publicity. As he stands next to the kitchen table, positioning the mics just so, Hank moves up behind him—warm and solid—his breath sweet with bourbon. He tries not to tremble as Hank places one huge, hot hand at his waist. The effort apparently fails, as Hank chuckles softly.

With his other hand, Hank guides Connor's finger to the trackpad and presses it down once, a decisive tap. 

The clock on the recorder begins to run, seconds ticking by in breathless silence.

"Go on, boy," Hank says, his lips soft on Connor's skin amid the scratch of his beard.

When Connor moves to sit, though, Hank's grip tightens at his middle, keeping him upright. With a firm push at his back, Hank forces him to bend at the waist and place his hands on either side of the stand.

Connor leans further toward the mic, trying to cut noise. Not that anything has yet been said. If he's entirely honest, Connor isn't sure he can make the words come. His mind is both swirling with confusion and staticky-blank as Hank smoothes an enormous paw up his back and grips his neck briefly.

_ Stay there _ is what it means. It's not a particularly comfortable position. Connor moves one hand, which is already damp enough to leave a film of sweat on the tabletop, to collapse the telescoping mic stand. He rests his elbows on the cool wood, his hips now slightly higher than his shoulders.

From Hank's wordless noise of approval, he can tell it was a good move. Only now, Connor feels terribly vulnerable with his lips brushing the mesh of the microphone and Hank towering over him, warm crotch pressed against Connor's ass.

Speaking seems impossible.

He squirms and gasps when Hank delivers a sharp pinch to the lower curve of his ass cheek, through his pants. 

"Ah...um, thank you for joining me, listeners..." he begins, shaky and unsure.

In a bare moment, Hank is reaching around his waist and unbuckling his belt.

Connor's words dry up at once. His spine stiffens, but he still tries to cast a look over his shoulder at Hank.

Another pinch, this one not merely firm but verging on cruel.

It makes Connor yelp. His mile-a-minute thoughts at least remind him that he can edit it out

"Keep going," Hank growls, then slips the button on his pants and slides the zipper down.

Despite the confusion, fear, and embarrassment, Connor feels blood rushing lower to fill out his cock. The fact that he gets off on this makes him worry that he's _ truly _ sick.

With a pleased rumble, Hank tugs Connor's pants over his hips and down his legs. The fabric crumples at his ankles, but Hank doesn't motion for him to step out or kick the garment away. Instead, he taps at Connor's calf with the toe of his shoe, prompting him to spread his feet.

The jeans prevent him from moving his legs too far apart, which seems to suit Hank just fine. He slides one impossibly warm hand inside the gap between Connor's thighs and presses the palm against Connor's balls, yet avoids brushing his hardening cock with his fingertips.

Connor whimpers. "Uh...major developments..." he stammers into the microphone. For a moment, he's terrified he'll let something that Gavin told him slip. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to calm his mind. He needs that leverage. "We might have...more special guests..."

As soon as Connor feels Hank's fingertips underneath the waistband of his boxers, he imagines those same thick fingers pressing inside him: a sweet stretch and the flare of pleasure.

"I can't...can't say much more now," he grates out. Cotton slides over his hips. The elastic catches briefly, maddeningly, on his stiff cock, then slips free, leaving him to bob and leak in the cool air.

When he's standing bare from the waist down in his kitchen, a single wan lamp visible on the dark street below his kitchen window, he hauls in a breath. "We now—we now know why it took so long for police to find McCullers' body," he says. It's barely a whisper.

Hank's fingers, deceptively gentle, skate over the rising bruise on his hip from the tumble into the concrete crater. Then his hot palms spread Connor open.

"Oh..._fuck_." Connor's knees go wobbly, but he snaps to attention when Hank digs his fingertips into the bruised skin. This time, the pain intertwines with a promise of reward. "I, uh, have exclusive confirmation—"

Insistent hands spread him further, stretching the tender skin and making him feel entirely exposed.

"—unlike the other victims, McCullers was buried—"

Connor gasps when he feels faint breath over his bare skin. One hand curls into a fist beside the mic.

"—uh, buried under...concrete."

He feels the tickle of beard hair on his thighs.

_ When did Hank go to his knees? _

Connor is pinned in place with unyielding hands as Hank flicks out his soft, wet tongue. The sound that leaves Connor's throat is high-pitched, humiliating. Nerves flare and ignite; he clenches, overcome by the need for more contact. "Please...!"

Hank makes a soft tsk-tsk sound, pulling back and brushing the pad of his thumb through the wetness left by his mouth. "Don't stop, Connor."

And dear_ God _ , Connor wants to push his hips backward, to beg again for Hank to taste him, to _ fuck _ him with that soft, probing tongue. But he pulls himself back from the brink of incoherence. "McCullers," he hisses, "uh—under a slab. What was a factory floor."

Hank licks a broad, wet stripe from the base of Connor's balls to the top of his cleft. It might be a reward, but it feels like punishment.

"The dirt dug out and the body hidden inside." Connor is talking quickly with no inflection, because Hank is licking into him deeply now, his thumbs gouging tender flesh on either side of his flickering tongue, matching wild pleasure with discomfort and strain.

It is a perfect echo of their dynamic.

"That's...that's why he was so hard—hard to...ah, _ fuck _!" Connor cries out, his jaw striking the mic hard. A stiff, wet tongue now breaches him, all at once too much and not nearly enough. The slick noises it creates are filthy. Connor's face burns with shame at how much he wants this. It took so very little, a mere scrap of information—literally—to get Hank here: on his knees and driving him mad with sensation.

He can only wonder whether he's drunk on the power it affords.

Fear recedes, fading to background noise, a buzzing nuisance. Single-minded need has taken precedence. Connor needs Hank to get to his feet, pull his heavy cock free, and fill him until he has no room for breath.

"Hank, please," he gasps. "_Please_. Need you...need—"

And Hank _ does _ pull away for a moment.

Connor's addled mind struggles long enough to register the absence that he barely hears a cabinet open and close. Then the warmth of Hank's presence returns, along with two slippery fingers at his sensitized entrance.

Connor bites his lip. He's ready, but at the same time, he's not. There's no more pretending now that he can stay level-headed enough to record.

What Hank did earlier—no one has done that for Connor in a long, long time. He'd forgotten both the sweetness and the vulnerability of being that..._ open _.

Hank's demeanor—an utter assurance that was almost _ ownership _—had only made the act more deliciously transgressive. Although Hank had been the one on his knees, it didn't change the fact that he'd kept total control.

Connor hopes he doesn't ask for more information. At the same time, he's shocked by how willing he is to give it over, if that means he can _ at last _ come under Hank's touch.

That touch becomes pressure; Connor's body begins to open around Hank's fingers. They're thick and unyielding, and he feels the stretch at once. But it's far from unwelcome. A humiliating, half-choked sound leaves his throat, and instead of writhing away from the intrusion, he shoves his hips back and takes Hank's fingers deeper.

Hank chuckles, a knowing sound. "I thought so," he says, stroking under Connor's shirt. "Always willing to give it up for me." He hums, pleased, and slides both fingers in until Connor feels bony knuckles against his skin. "You have been since the first time we met. So anxious that night to get my cock in your mouth and swallow me down." He turns his hand; the fingers twist.

Connor nearly shouts, clawing at the tabletop. The microphone beside his cheek—still live—is the only cool point on his skin. The rest is fire, flaming in his cheeks and neck and centered around Hank's fingers where they press inside him.

"Yes!" he calls. "Yes, Hank. Oh, fuck."

"Such a little whore for me, aren't you, sweetheart?" Hank asks, sliding his fingers nearly all the way out and then pushing in again with one smooth thrust. It isn't lube he's using; it's some sort of oil. The glide is uneven and there's much more friction.

Though the drag hasn't progressed to the point of pain as Hank fucks him lazily with those long fingers, it still might. Connor is past caring. A drop of the oil escapes and slides in a tickling path down his inner thigh. He whines, still hoping Hank hasn't noticed.

Oh, but he _ has _. With his free hand, Hank swipes along the peach-fuzzed flesh of Connor's thigh, catching the bead of oil.

In a second or two, the slick finger is pressed to Connor's face, moving, smearing oil around his lips and chin. It smells of olive and musk. Connor opens his mouth and takes the finger in, burning with shame and groaning at how good it feels.

"Hank," he begs around the thick intrusion that presses deeper, presses down his tongue. "Please, please. Fuck me. I need it. Please." 

Abruptly, Hank pulls the finger away. "You haven't earned that, boy," he hisses. "I told you before, you're going to come on my fingers." With that, he crooks them savagely downward.

Connor may have pinpoint bruises on his ass cheeks from the unyielding press of of Hank's knuckles. That will occur to him much later, because now it feels like white-hot electricity is arcing through his body, making his muscles jump and shudder. His painfully hard cock leaks onto the tile, fluid pooling between his spread legs.

Hank pulls back, then slams in again.

When Connor cries out and convulses, a strong hand at his back pins his chest to the table. The ridge of his cheekbone knocks against one mic and sends it toppling over and skittering across to strike his laptop.

"Fuck, fuck..." he groans, trying to push back against Hank.

The fingers inside him pump at a furious pace, curling each time on the downstroke and making him light up. His skin tingles and his vision is obscured by gray mist. _ God_, he wants to come; he's straining at it. But he's not there yet.

"Do it, boy," Hank commands.

"I—I don't think I can!" Connor whimpers, suspended near an invisible edge.

Through clenched teeth, Hank growls, "You can and you will. Don't fight me."

"I'm trying!" Connor wails. To his horror, the slick fingers leave his body altogether. Tears sting his eyes.

It's less than a second, though, before a harsh slap comes down on his ass. Then another. Another. They echo in the small space, made louder by the oil coating Hank's hand. On already-sensitive skin, each strike burns hot and steals his breath. He struggles but gets nowhere.n When the vicious flurry ends, Hank plunges his fingers right back inside with a merciless twist of his hand.

Connor yells, seeing the volume bar on the recording app spike into red. With some of the oil gone, there's enough texture and friction to satisfy. It pushes him past the final mile, and after a single, solid thrust of those long fingers, he comes hard. With toes curling and nails digging into the varnished oak of the table, Connor finally lets go and spatters the floor underneath.

The tang of blood hits his tongue. A delayed pinch of pain registers where he's accidentally bitten the inside of his cheek.

Hank still presses his fingers hard inside, coaxing the last shivers from Connor's body and the final drops from his spent cock.

The first sound Connor makes is one of defeat.

Sighing, satisfied, Hank pulls his fingers free but keeps the other hand firm on Connor's back.

The dull ring of a belt buckle sounds far away, but Connor snaps to attention when he feels the silky, blunt head of Hank's cock against the stinging skin of his ass. 

Hank goes no further, though, not tonight. His hand moves quickly, stroking what oil remains up and down his length as he jerks himself without hesitating.

A grunt from behind him, and fingertips dig into Connor's back just before he feels liquid warmth spurt onto his skin. He hears Hank's rapid breathing, feels it ruffle his hair for a moment. Then a large, callused hand smears come over the curve of his ass, drags cooling liquid underneath and draws it up his cleft to prod at his swollen entrance. Hank's other hand skims down his back. He dips it into the mess, too, and pushes a filthy streak up Connor's back, underneath his shirt. Both come-sticky hands pull at him—one tangled in his hair and the other at his cheek, yanking him upward to stand against Hank's furious warmth.

His thick cock, pressed against Connor’s back, is slow to deflate.

Connor licks what he can of Hank's singular taste from those long, insistent fingers—the rest is smudged over his face, dirtying his forehead, eyebrows, eyelashes.

As a parting gift of sorts, Hank tightens the hand in Connor's hair and pokes two fingers past his lips.

They slide over Connor's tongue to the back of his throat. He gags around them, but seizes Hank's wrist in a vain attempt to make him stay, let him suck away the taste.

Hank shakes free and steps away, but not before he whispers, "Good boy."

It's all Connor needs.

After the door closes behind Hank, Connor reaches out with a shaky, sticky hand and stops the recording.

It's unusable, an embarrassment.

He refuses to delete it.

For the first time since their tryst began, he looks out the window into the night.

No one is looking up; no one stands on the sidewalk or in the street, drenched in yellow light. A sliver of the moon's underbelly shows from beneath the clouds.

Sore, sated, and dazed, Connor cleans up the table and then himself, stripping down and standing in the shower. He doesn't want to wash Hank's scent away, but he also doesn't want to share it with anyone else. Hank is his secret. Connor has no cause to envy those who work with him on the task force, but he does. He begrudges them their time with the lieutenant. 

Same with any suspects. That is, if any have been questioned yet. There's a perverse sort of pride buoying Connor up when he imagines others—those who are weaker—snapping under the strain of Hank's intensity.

With a flush of pleasure, Connor realizes _ he _ did not break. Not in a way that counted. Hank had pushed him and used him and made him beg, but all the information from "Gavin" was still his to keep. Not that Hank doesn't know it, but he doesn't know that _ Connor _ knows it.

Even given everything that had just happened, a revised plan is coming together in his mind. Hank had held him down, struck him—his ass still tingles from the blows delivered by that huge hand—and still he intends to play with fire.

Never mind an invitation next time; Connor will simply air the information and let Hank come to him, and to do what he pleases.

As he dries off, he hears the text tone ping. With the towel knotted around his hips, he saunters into the kitchen. The half-finished coffee and bourbon in the mug he'd given Hank is cold and bitter, but he sips it anyway, remembering.

The text is from Markus.

CALL ME.

The situation must be serious; like any other millennial, Markus hates phone calls. Connor sighs and taps his contact information. Barely one ring passes before Markus picks up.

"Where have you been?" he asks.

Connor frowns. "In the shower."

Markus makes a dismissive noise. "I'd hate to see your water bill," he says. "Listen, bad news."

Connor is not in the mood. His reverie has been burst. "For you or for me?" he asks.

After a pause, Markus says, "For the city. Like it or not, this concerns you now. They found Mallory."

Connor feels his heart sink and guilt seep in. "Is she alive?"

"No."

"Oh, fuck." The taste of the liquor-laced coffee is doubly sour in Connor's mouth. "What happened?"

"That we don't know yet," says Markus. "Only that she's dead. North is really upset."

"Yeah," Connor says, distracted. "Yeah, of course. Um, what can I do?"

"That lieutenant with the force," Markus starts, "he an established contact? Someone you could ask?"

"Maybe." Connor is stalling. He doesn't want to use up his precious leverage with Hank...even for Markus's sake. It likely makes him a terrible person, but at this point he can't force himself to care.

Grimacing, he swallows the last few gulps of the cold coffee, pretending he tastes Hank on the rim of the cup. "He leads the DK Task Force," he tells Markus. "I'm not sure he has time to look at other homicides."

"If Kamski owns that plot, _ and _ they found one of the DK's victims there, couldn't there be a chance they're connected?" Markus asks.

"He didn't own it last year when the body was found. The city did."

"Well, we can't investigate the whole city government," Markus says, frustration plain in his tone. "Not with any sort of efficiency. Come on, man. Help me out. Finding out who murdered Mallory isn't any less important just because it wasn't some famous serial killer."

"And your podcast isn't more important than finding a serial killer!" Connor snaps back.

"That's low, Connor," Markus says. "Really fucking low."

"So is assuming I don't care about North's friend."

A long silence. "Sorry," Markus tells him at last. "I'm just worked up. It hasn't been a good day."

"Yeah," mumbles Connor. "I'm sorry, too." He's all too aware of the lack of sincerity behind his words.

Gavin promised to contact him again after the next episode, but Connor isn't ready to broadcast what he was told. Not when that information is his only guarantee for another visit from Hank. True, Hank might know something about Mallory's death; he probably went straight to the station to search for the missing persons report after leaving Connor debauched in his kitchen. If what the three of them found at the old GM plant is enough to arouse suspicion, then it's surely enough to put Kamski on _ Hank's _ DK suspect list, if he wasn't there already.

But Hank is unlikely to volunteer the information without some cajoling from Connor. And the game between them is _ far _ too sweet to end this soon.

"I'll see what Ha—uh, Lieutenant Anderson knows about it," Connor lies. "It might not be anything, just warning you."

"I know," says Markus. "I appreciate it."

Then, Connor gets an idea. "Let's blow it wide open," he says to Markus. "The Mallory thing. Find out everything we can about Kamski, then put out a special joint episode. Launch the same day and ask for tips by email."

"Damn," Markus says. There's a bright note of hope in his voice. "That's a great idea," he continues. "Think we could record in the next couple of nights?"

"Yeah, yeah," Connor says. "Let's research Monday and plan to record Tuesday after work. Sound good?"

"Sounds great." Markus sighs. "Thanks, man. I really am grateful."

"Of course. Sure. No problem." Connor's intrusive feeling of guilt that this is all ultimately self-serving lingers after he ends the call. But not for too long. He entertains the notion that this must be what Hank feels: satisfaction with strategy, with how far he can push, what he discloses and what he holds back. The sensation is kinetic inside him, zinging around in his body and infusing his muscles with steel at the same time that it sharpens his mind.

Connor is so worked up that he nearly decides to pre-record his bait episode. But he wants to savor this phenomenon of exquisite control. It slips over the earlier encounter with Hank, coloring it with purpose and turning his helpless need from a weakness to a weapon. After shutting off the kitchen light, Connor takes his laptop to the bedroom. He doesn't brush his teeth, wanting to keep the burnt coffee taste a while longer. In bed, he wriggles out of his clothes and dons his headphones. Even before Hank's recorded voice speaks, he's hard. Connor comes in record time with that low voice rumbling in his ears.


	4. Chapter 4

The following day, he wakes with a need to record, even if the episode will end up deferred for a week. All of the churning sexual energy of the previous evening he finds he can tame and direct into focus that deepens his voice and makes the words come easily to his tongue.

It's almost as if he's channeling Hank—the man's deadly calm and staggering breadth of knowledge—during the entire recording. The bit of bourbon Connor splashed into his coffee doesn't even go to his head. Rather, it cements the illusion.

When he finishes, he's _ ravenous_.

While devouring two egg-and-bacon sandwiches, Connor plays the recording back and is pleased with what he hears. There's little, if any, editing necessary. He leads with the visit to Jamel's hospital room—without naming him—for emotional impact. A _ hook _.

The episode climaxes with the revelation of the differing boot treads and sizes, and Connor leaves his listeners hanging (at least he _ hopes _ he does) with a promise for another interview with Hank to either confirm or deny the explosive new information. Only upon listening again to this final promise does Connor feel a thrill of danger, his heartbeat picking up and throbbing in his temples.

He resists the temptation to listen to the recording of his and Hank's tryst, though the desire is strong. However, as he undresses for a shower, he catches sight of himself in the mirror. Stippled bruising is scattered across his backside. Last night, he hadn't thought the forceful impact of Hank's enormous hands had been enough to leave marks.

The sight is jaw-dropping.

Almost at once, Connor is so aroused he's dizzy. The room spins, making his pale, nude body a white blur and the ash-colored bruises on his ass look streaky under the artificial light. He braces one hand on the wall and closes his eyes, grasping his rapidly stiffening cock.

When the vertigo passes, he remains where he is, jerking himself hard while looking over his shoulder at the marks. He imagines they still tingle.

But it's only when he moves his free hand from its place on the wall and wraps it delicately around his own neck that he comes. 

Shame rises and crests as he stands in the shower afterward. With every one of his previous partners, he'd wanted cautious deliberation and respect—no pushing of boundaries either physical or emotional unless expressly asked for.

_ Wasn't that the way it was supposed to be? _

Sex before Hank had been considerate, measured...boring.

Thinking that way makes Connor wonder if he's sick, if needing Hank or what Hank offers him is a disease for which the cure is something infinitely worse. Something he can't go back from or stop desiring.

_ He'll ruin me_.

_ I _ want _ him to_.

"Fuck," Connor spits, the word echoing off of the tile in his very empty bathroom. He shuts off the tap and steps out, grabbing a towel and rushing to his bedroom to dry off before he can glance at his reflection again.

When he's dressed, he shoots Markus a text letting him know he's heading over to the library. His hair is still wet and will fluff into wild curls if untamed by product, but Connor can't seem to care.

What he really wants to do is hit up the county records office. It being a Sunday, though, it won't be open. He'll take an extended lunch break from work tomorrow. It's hard to tell whether the fact that his guilt about going behind Markus's back seems to be diminishing is good or bad.

Not like Markus won't eventually know, it's just that Connor wants to be the first between them to look into other Kamski land purchases around Detroit. Not to scoop Markus out of spite or spring a surprise during the recording (though the thought is tempting).

No, he wants to take Hank exploring.

Preferably after Hank has _ thoroughly _ wrecked him, so every aching muscle and raw, tender spot on his skin serves as a reminder. Connor absently lets his hand drift upward again, tracing the column of his throat with his fingertips as he drives.

He's only in the library for 10 minutes before Markus arrives, breathless and determined.

"I'm really, really glad you're helping with this, man," he tells Connor, who mumbles something about justice and hopes it sounds convincing.

The articles they find are recent.

While most business owners and hedge fund investors are in their 50s or older, Kamski is only 36. He took a plastics engineering degree from a mid-level state school and levied it using investments and mergers into a group of infrastructure firms. His companies handle waste removal, recycling, water, roads—even industrial architecture and park planning. Before the negative stories began to crop up, most of the coverage was local, and surprisingly positive. Fawning pieces on some chump-change "gift" or another.

In one Freep article that headed the Metro section a few years back, an enormous photo shows a group of people on one side of a red ribbon, with a group of kids waiting on the other.

The headline reads: "City officials mark grand opening of new north side green space."

According to the photo caption, Elijah Kamski is a tall, pale man with a greasy-looking ponytail scraped back from his angular face. His smile looks like someone Photoshopped it onto the picture. Kamski is the only one not wearing a suit or a uniform. The people flanking him are apparently Detroit Chief of Police Jeffrey Fowler, City Councilwoman Amanda Stern (_ No relation, _ Connor thinks, laughing to himself), and Mayor Carlos Hernandez. At the center, a cop in dress uniform holds a pair of cartoonishly huge cardboard scissors.

This is, apparently, a Sergeant Gavin Reed. His grin looks nearly as fake as Kamski's.

Connor runs his fingertip over the name on the screen. How many cops named Gavin can there be? This is Michigan, not Manchester.

Are this Gavin and _ his _ Gavin the same person? Or does the disembodied voice on the phone merely want Connor to _ think _ he's someone he's not?

"Find something interesting?" Markus asks, looking up from his own screen.

Connor shakes his head. "Thought so at first," he says. "But no." Another lie, blithe and easy. He's going to find out more about this "Gavin Reed" person before he tries to contact him and see if the voice matches the face. Again, he wonders if his informant is stupid enough to use his real name. And, if so, whether there's a reason for it.

The following day at work, when Connor tries to beg off for an extended lunch break, Markus is suspicious. As it turns out, it isn't for the reason Connor thought it might be.

"Seeing your older man?" Markus asks, elbowing Connor in the side.

Connor sighs with relief.

"What?" asks Markus. Damn his relentless perception.

Throwing up his hands, Connor says, "You got me. But, hey, lunch is on him. I'm broke and desperate."

Markus raises his eyebrows, his expression over-the-top lascivious. "Desperate enough to have dessert in the car afterward?"

Connor wrinkles his nose, hoping it looks genuine. In truth, he would _ absolutely _ go down on Hank in his car, whether or not a meal was on offer. His mouth waters as he thinks about swallowing down as much of that hefty cock as he can, trying for more than last time. Choking and drooling down that long shaft just trying to make Hank proud. _ Fuck _, he's got to stop thinking about this before he gets a hard-on at work. 

"You are!" Markus says, gape-mouthed and wide-eyed. "Man, you're in deep. He's got a magic dick, huh?"

Turning away to hide his deepening flush, Connor says, "Back off, Markus. Okay?"

"Hey, hey," Markus says, touching his shoulder.

Connor shrugs him off, embarrassed.

"Sorry, bro," Markus tells him. "Really. I didn't mean to push. It’s just you said last time..."

Connor drags in a deep breath, then manages a smile for the sake of peacemaking. "Nah, the dick _ is _ pretty amazing."

In response, Markus grins and nods. His shoulder twitches as if he wants to raise his hand for a high five, but he only says, "Nice."

"He’s nice," Connor says. 

Hank isn't, though. Not really. And their encounters are filthy and rough and fast and a little scary. Somehow, that's _ better _. 

Connor smacks his thigh decisively to ward off the oncoming arousal. "Anyway," he says, "off for lunch. And maybe some dessert."

Markus winks. "Let's hope so."

A bored-looking woman at the Wayne County Records Office shows Connor how to find land deeds in the database. These records, he finds, are digitized more exensively with much greater consistency than the newspaper's back issues.

A simple search of "Kamski" returns nothing. But he puts in a series of boolean search terms composed of Kamski's company names and the list populates and grows. At the end of an hour, he's able to find a number of what he believes are shell corporations created by Kamski specifically to buy property around the city. Absent any way to share links, Connor screenshots as many documents as he can, sending them to his own email in large, painstaking batches.

By the time he returns to the library, it's been more than two hours.

Markus taps an imaginary watch on his wrist. "Sure hope it was worth it," he says.

"Oh," Connor tells him with a grin, "it was."

Huffing and rolling his eyes, Markus turns away. He stops and says over his shoulder, "Next time, you're covering me so North and I can get nasty."

Connor laughs. "Sure thing."

A woman has come up to the desk to check out a couple of books.

Markus apparently hasn't seen her, because he half-turns again and shouts, "I'm gonna come back smelling like the floor of a strip club."

The woman gasps.

Appalled at being heard, Markus darts off into the stacks.

Connor has to try _ very _ hard not to crack up.

**

On Tuesday, North joins them in the library to dish on what she's found out about Kamski. 

Connor is wearing his new boots today. It's a little too hot, but they're surprisingly comfortable.

As North approaches, Connor kicks the side of Markus's sneaker. 

"Ow!" hisses Markus "What was that for?"

"Strip club," Connor murmurs, just as North reaches the desk.

Markus snorts a laugh, and the two of them end up snickering until North rolls her eyes and cuffs Markus gently on the side of the head. When the laughter subsides, she tells them she's done some digging in land records.

Connor knows he’s very lucky that they hadn't ended up in the records office on the same day. He's curious as to what she found, and more than a little miffed that he hadn't been the only one with the same idea.

But North is brainy and savvy. She's identified the possible shell companies, too. Still, Markus—methodical as ever—says they should look into the properties with an obvious link to Kamski first, and North agrees.

Connor nods along, trying not to seem too enthusiastic, even though he's planning to work from the opposite end of the list. That evening, he has to block off the investigative pathways he intends to follow during the recording with Markus, sticking instead to the knowledge they share. That _ does _ include Mallory's disappearance and death, the strange hole in the concrete and its lingering smell of decomposition.

In case Markus's audience doesn't know, Connor talks about the first body found there, that of extortion-minded landlord Byron McCullers, the Deviant Killer's first victim.

Markus gives a rundown of the tainted water scandal for Connor's listeners. Even though he uses Elijah Kamski's name to tie together the shoddy water line job and the abandoned GM property, he deftly stops short of implying Kamski is connected in any way to the Deviant Killer case. 

Both Connor and Markus admit during the recording that it seems unlikely the same person killed both Mallory and Byron. It seems an odd juxtaposition, after all. How could it be that Kamski would endanger hundreds of families, then turn around and exact vengeance on a slumlord whose negligence had proven fatal?

That's all they need to do, however: just put it out into the wider world and let the conjecture fly. They wrap the recording satisfied that a solid product is in the can, and Connor even offers to take on the grueling task of editing.

It's not a selfless offer. He wants control of what goes out, and he knows that Markus trusts him.

It will be a long week before the joint Dead to Rights/The Revolution episode airs on Friday. Connor fills his time looking further into the information from the records office. It's interesting, he thinks, that Kamski's companies—both legitimate and possibly shady—either buy from the city or from banks rather than from private or corporate owners. Not surprising, considering that many of the properties were foreclosed on or seized, but interesting.

Words in small print begin to swim in front of Connor's eyes when he notices a familiar address: 2121 Denham Street. The spark of recognition is faint enough that he has to go back through his DK notes, but it bursts into a blaze when he makes the connection.

2121 Denham was an apartment block once owned and managed by Byron McCullers. He wouldn't be connected to the DK until much later. The place where three tenants had died in a carbon monoxide leak was bought by Kamski less than two months after McCullers disappeared. 

**

On the day the joint episode goes up, Connor debates sitting back and letting Hank contact him. In the end, he decides to pre-empt a call if he doesn't hear anything by Saturday morning. It's also a way to test if Hank is listening to the pod regularly now.

Anyway, he'd like to assert a little more power in the relationship (can he even call it that?)—to make Hank understand that he isn't passive, that he can't be bullied. Even with the promise of incredible sex.

Or so Connor tells himself. 

Even so, he's mildly disappointed when Friday passes and Saturday dawns without a word from Hank. Maybe he's already made a connection between Kamski and the Deviant Killer, or even ruled it out.

Gritting his teeth, he tries not to be intimidated by how much he _ doesn't _ know. He has to remind himself that he isn't a cop. Hank has much greater access to information. But citizen investigators can and _ have _ stepped in when the police run out of leads.

So he shoots Hank a quick text. No greeting, nothing casual. What he writes instead is:

_ pretty sure e. kamski bought b. mccullers building before he died. want to know more? _

It's absolutely meant as a provocation. A taunt, even. There's just as much thrill in stringing Hank along as there is in goading him, making him want to be rough. To lose control.

Notifications show that the message is received and read. But a long, frustrating two hours pass before Connor gets a reply. He can't say he wasn't tempted to send another, but investigation is a waiting game. He's casing Hank as surely as the task force is casing its suspect.

When the text tone goes off, Connor grabs his phone. His palms are already sweating.

_ Just catching up on this Revolution podcast. _

_ Your little friend Markus is too idealistic for this business. _

Hank’s dismissiveness of Markus's attitude is gratifying at first. 

After a second or two of basking in Hank's favor, though, he ends up inwardly kicking himself. Markus's heart is in the right place, plus he's smart and driven. It's unfair, Connor thinks, to put him down just because he yearns for Hank's attention.

Or is there even more to it? Does he honestly think that Hank will pursue Markus? Demand favors in the same way? It's a seemingly idiotic notion, then Connor reads:

_ Maybe I should chat with him. _

Connor's sweating fingers clench around the phone. He doesn't want to rise to what he knows is bait. He texts back:

_ I'll introduce you if you want. _

After a full two minutes, Hank calls.

Connor waits for his breathing to slow, lets the phone ring a couple of times. Then he answers with, "Is that a 'yes' or a 'no?'"

"I don't need to meet your friend," Hank says. "Not right now, at least." He pauses for a beat or two. "Do you think he'd know?"

"Know what?" Connor asks.

"That I'm fucking you," Hank says, his voice deep and rich. "Do you think he'd be able to tell?"

Connor swallows hard. "You're not...fucking me."

A rumbling chuckle. "I've used your sweet little mouth," he says. "Made you come on my fingers. But I guess it only counts if I fuck that tight ass. Is that it?"

Connor has no idea how to answer. A hot flush creeps up his neck to his cheeks.

Hank laughs again. "Don't worry, honey," he purrs. "You'll get what you want. And you _ do _ want it."

It was practically the same as what he said the first time in Connor's kitchen. Just like that first time, it's not a question. And again, the answer is the same.

"Yes," Connor says, gripping the phone with a trembling hand.

"I know," Hank says. "I'll split you open on my cock, make you beg."

A whimper escapes Connor's lips. Before he can stop himself, he asks, "When?" It sounds needy, pathetic.

Hank's tone is stern. "Not yet. If you're going to tease me, I can tease you right back, boy."

"Not teasing," Connor whines. He hates that he's groveling and loves it at the same time.

"Oh yeah? What was that text, then? If I didn't want more I wouldn't have called you."

At that point, Connor honestly can't tell if he's talking about information or sex. "I—" he begins, stammering. "I think a shell company set up by Kamski, a real estate investment firm, bought the building Byron McCullers used to own."

"After he died," Hank supplies.

"After he disappeared," says Connor. "You found McCullers' body last October.”

"When did this Kamski guy buy up the building?" Hank asks.

"June of last year." Connor pauses. "So Kamski isn't on your suspect list?"

"Didn't say that."

Connor can hear the wolfish smile in Hank's voice.

"Didn't deny it, either. Thing is," Hank continues, "I can't see Elijah Kamski knocking off Byron McCullers for a condemned property. With three deaths in the building and all the news stories, he could have had it for a steal, even if McCullers was only in prison. Likely as not, he'll tear it down. Everywhere you look in this fucking city, it's gentrification." He sniffs, dismissive. "And I _ definitely _ can't see Kamski adopting the motives of the DK. Look at the news: that rich bastard doesn't care if people die because of his work. Long as he gets paid."

"Fair," Connor says, "could it be he's trying to pull attention away? I mean, from himself. Poisoning a neighborhood is a big distraction, but if he's got some sort of...I dunno..._ Batman _ thing going, maybe he thinks killing scumbags is the most important thing he does."

Hank laughs, but says, "Pretty sure Batman didn't kill anybody. But I've heard of that kind of twisted logic to justify shit like this. Gotta be honest, never expected to have it land in my own backyard."

"What about the journalist?" Connor asks, pressing. "Mallory Davis?"

"Hm." After a pause, Hank says, "Assuming he targeted her not for McCullers but for whoever was in that hole before it got dug up, it makes more sense. He could have had someone do it, or he could have strangled her himself."

Connor's stomach knots up. "She was strangled?"

"Yeah," Hank says. "Some kind of rope or cord. Homicide didn't find it at the scene." He clears his throat. "That does _ not _ get broadcast, you hear me? Consider it a gift. To keep you looking."

Both thrilled and sickened by his need for Hank's approval, Connor says, "Of course." He goes on to ask, "Did you get anything from that scrap of cloth I found?"

"Crime lab could tell it was human," says Hank. "DNA was too degraded to get anything else."

"So we're looking for a body," Connor says.

Hank chuckles. "I guess _ we _ are."

"Any other 'gifts' for me?" Connor asks in a teasing tone.

"So greedy," Hank croons. "Be careful; I might get the wrong idea."

"What's that?"

Hank's voice is dark. "That you’re a little slut. You certainly beg like one."

Connor takes a sharp breath.

"Go on, then," Hank says. "Beg."

Biting his lip, Connor thinks for a moment. He doesn't know quite what to say, what to ask for. Other than _ everything _. "Hank...please. I need—"

"What do you need, honey?"

Surprisingly, the soft tone of Hank's voice and the gentle endearment makes Connor's desire surge. It's impossible to know whether it's a put-on, a momentary lapse in concentration. A revelation? Regardless, it draws Connor in past the point that he can back away.

As if he weren't already there.

"Need you inside me. Hank...fill me up." He hesitates for a moment.

"Go on," Hank prompts, his voice soothing rather than demanding.

"Hold me?" It comes out as a whimper. Connor bites his lip with the shame of it, but also has to press his palm against the growing hardness between his legs.

Hank hums softly. "I'll hold you, beautiful boy. Pin you down and taste every inch of your skin."

"Yes. Please, I need it."

"I know, baby. I'll wrap you up so tight in my arms you'll forget where you end and I begin."

Connor moans again. His eyes sting. Very soon, the pressure on his straining cock won't be enough. "Make me—" he starts. "Make me feel—"

_Feel what?_ he thinks. _Wanted?_ _ Needed_?

_ ...Safe_?

"—everything," he finishes. "Don't hold back."

In a flash, Hank's tone turns dark again, silky and shot through with promise. "You should know by now, Connor," he says. "I will _ never _ hold back. Not with you."

The sound of his name on Hank's lips makes Connor shudder.

As if he's plucked the thought right out of his head, Hank repeats, "Connor. My gorgeous boy. You could drive a man crazy. I can taste your ambition, your desire. I'll give you everything. And _ more_."

When a high-pitched noise slips from Connor's throat and he fumbles with his free hand to get his pants open, Hank murmurs, "That's right. Touch yourself. Prove that you can't help it."

Both relief and terrible want flood his system as Connor gets warm fingers around his cock. "I can't. I can't."

"I know. And you won't have to wait long. I'll give you what you need soon. And you'll take it, won't you, baby?"

Another squeak. "Yes! I'll take it. Hank...I'll do whatever you want."

Again, Hank says, "I know." There's something steely below the softness. "Do something for me, Connor," he says. "I want you to come. Right now."

Part of Connor expects that he won't manage it, that his body will betray him as it did when he was bent over his own kitchen table, wailing for release.

But it responds to Hank's command at once.

A cry of relief rings through the space, and Connor is surprised to find he is the source. By the time he's able to grasp what's happening, he's already striped the bunched fabric of his pants with come, and he now grips his cock through the final shudders, leaking onto his hand.

"Very good," Hank says, just as he had on the first night they met. Like he always says.

Connor's memory drifts back, and the feel of Hank's impossible thickness filling his mouth is suddenly fresh in his mind again. It makes him convulse with another jolt of blinding want.

"I'll pay you a visit soon," Hank says. "Come and get what's mine. You belong to me, sweetheart."

The word _ Yes _ is ringing inside Connor's head, but before he can either speak it or consider the implications, Hank has cut off the call.

Connor sags in his chair. He feels both dirty and satisfied—utterly spent—and the exhaustion is profound enough that he can't muster the energy to force himself to think about Hank's words. For that, he's overwhelmingly grateful.

But as he sheds the soiled clothes, he can still hear them: _ You belong to me_.

The statement chafes, even in Hank's smooth voice. But Connor can't tell anymore if it's the sentiment that rankles or the fact that some part of him _ likes _ it, wants to be owned and controlled. Jesus, is he that far gone?

It doesn't bear examining before he slips into bed. 

**

By morning, Hank's words bounce around in his skull, untethered from each other so much that they have lost meaning and become more a curiosity than a threat.

Connor buckles down, losing himself in research—not on Kamski or his land purchases but on Gavin Reed. It's less than an hour, however, before he finds out that the two spheres of information overlap in the strangest possible way.

Connor unearths a wedding announcement, of all things. He doesn't know Elijah Kamski personally, but he sure doesn't seem the type to get married. He doesn't seem the type that someone would want to be married _ to _, in all honesty. 

But about eight years ago, Kamski had married a woman named Chloe. In the published photo of the wedding party, she looks stunning: blonde and pert and perfect with a winning smile.

Kamski looks totally different in the photo than he does today. He's still got long hair, but it looks clean and shiny. He's wearing glasses and has a well-trimmed beard. Even in the obviously expensive tuxedo, he looks almost goofy.

Connor stifles a laugh.

He wonders if Chloe is still married to the new, questionably "improved" Kamski. If not, he hopes she got a good chunk of money when she left.

But what catches his eye is the man standing beside Kamski. He's clean-shaven, unlike in the other photo of him Connor has seen. Still, the face is unmistakable: this guy is the same police officer shown cutting the ribbon on the play area in the Freep article. This is Gavin Reed...Kamski's best man?

Wide-eyed, absently tapping the side of his mouth, Connor reads through the short column. It’s placed in the online edition of a limited-circulation magazine. Something he's never heard of but that looks so slick that it must be reserved for the city's high society. After all, the column appears by an ad for pricey handbags he's _ definitely _ heard of. After details about who designed Chloe's custom gown and what company catered the event, Connor actually sees Gavin's name.

He had been thinking up until that point that their relationship was professional, since Kamski does so much business with the city. Then he sees a word that makes him sit back in his chair. If this guy is the same person as his informant, he needs to think hard before he does anything else about what Gavin's motives might be. What he's chosen to leak, and what he might be covering up.

Because, according to the article, Gavin Reed is Elijah Kamski's _ brother_.

When the shock abates, Connor is _ angry_. This could very well mean that the "tip" given to him by informant-Gavin is bullshit. He sits back from the computer for a moment, closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths. It's time to evaluate his responsibility to the truth.

When it comes down to it, he's not a reporter. He's not even being paid—not in any meaningful way—to do this job. Podcasters are just like people on message boards: they theorize, bandy ideas about.

But he wants _ so damn badly _ to have something that others don't. Something solid.

A fit of doubt threatens to overwhelm him, tempting him to scrap the unreleased episode, but he pushes it down. Before anything else, he needs to talk to Gavin and suss out if he's protecting Kamski, the Deviant Killer, or even himself.

Connor calls the main number for the precinct and asks to be connected with Sergeant Reed. A testy-sounding operator transfers him, but the call goes to voicemail. 

Not content to screw around, Connor leaves a short message, making the assumption he's talking to the right man: "This is Connor Stern. I know your brother bought Byron McCullers' building...and the lot where his body was found."

No longer than five minutes after Connor rings off, he gets an incoming from a local number. "Stern," he says, his heart in his throat.

"Just so you know," Gavin tells him, "Elijah's my half-brother. Mom had a real taste for deadbeat assholes allergic to child support." 

The verification is satisfying, even if Connor isn't sure he can ever trust what Gavin says. "Looks like you two turned out okay," he ventures. A sniff from the other end. "You'd think so."

"Does that mean _ you _ didn't turn out okay, or that _ he _ didn't?"

_ Or both_?

"Everybody's got shit they regret," Gavin tells him.

"Is that why you called me?" Connor asks.

"I don't wanna talk on the phone," says Gavin.

"Fine," counters Connor, "then meet me."

"Yeah. I'll drop a pin. Be there in half an hour."

The double beep in Connor's ear signals that the connection has gone dead. But a couple minutes later, he gets a maps notification. Opening it in the app shows travel time of 25 minutes.

Connor surges out of his chair and pulls on jeans and a t-shirt, the laces of his boots flailing as he runs down the stairs.

There's a guy in a hoodie sitting on the low concrete wall surrounding the parking garage that ends up being the final destination. He's facing away, toward the landscaped lawn of an office. As Connor approaches, a plume of cigarette smoke drifts up and disappears in the hazy summer air.

He must have heard footsteps, because the guy turns around and pushes the hood back from a crop of unruly brown hair. 

His face is definitely familiar, but Gavin Reed looks much more haggard than in the two photos Connor had seen. He's got dark circles under his eyes, and the stubble on his nearly gaunt cheeks is edging into beard territory.

With a sigh, Gavin slides off the wall and tosses the half-smoked cig to the ground.

"You wanted me to ID you," Connor says. "Why?"

"Everything in this city is fucked up, kid." Gavin says it with a laugh, but there's real desperation in his voice.

Connor presses on "Are you tired of protecting your brother?"

Gavin sniffs again. "Not protecting him. I ain't a fucking saint, but Lije...he's a real sonofabitch."

Even though he's intrigued, Connor can't help but feel a small prickle of emotion at the nickname Gavin gives Kamski. Connor is an only child, but he'd always wanted a brother. Especially an older brother. _ Be careful what you wish for, right_?

He clears his throat. "Enough of a sonofabitch to kill?"

"Absolutely," Gavin says at once. "But he's not your Deviant Killer. I can tell you that."

"Can you prove it?"

"I can't prove it directly, but I know Lije. He's not some sort of underground hero, wasting bad guys. He doesn't give a fuck about people."

"What about you?"

"I'm a cop," Gavin says. "Aren't we supposed to care about people?"

"No," says Connor. "I mean, does Elijah give a fuck about _ you _?"

Gavin jams his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He looks over the rows of cars. "I don't know yet."

_ Yet_?

The question is in Connor's mouth, but he swallows it back. He'll keep that one in his pocket...for now. "Okay," he says. 

It doesn't seem worth asking whether Gavin believes his brother could have killed McCullers. The financial picture doesn't add up, and there's no motive. _ Still _…

"At the old GM site, the one your brother bought," Connor says, "there was another body."

Gavin looks up, shocked. "Huh?"

"Well, not a body, but a hole where a body was. Poured over with concrete then dug up."

Scratching the side of his mouth, Gavin says, "I don't know nothing about that." His lips are chapped, his first two fingers tobacco-stained. The poor bastard really is a mess.

"Nothing?" asks Connor.

"That's what I said, right?" Gavin scowls and spits on the concrete.

"I'm trying to figure out if I can trust you," Connor tells him.

This time, Gavin's laugh is even more desperate. "Kid, don't trust _ anyone_. Everybody's out for themselves. And you should be, too, if you know what's good for you."

_ I am_, Connor thinks. _ Trust me on that_.

"If you weren't lying about the boot prints being different sizes on the victims, show me the crime scene photos," he says to Gavin. "Prove you saw the files."

He can see Gavin's jaw working before he speaks, his bloodshot eyes narrow with concentration.

"Not electronically," Gavin says at last. "I'll print and mail them. Give me your address."

"No. Send them to the Detroit Public Library, Central Branch. To my attention."

Another moment of fierce inner debate shows on Gavin's face. "Fine. Don't let anyone else see those photos."

"I won't," Connor says.

"I mean it, Stern," Gavin says. He looks over his shoulder, his expression much more haunted now than irritated. "_No one_."

"Fine. I get it. I'm not leaking them to the press or anything." After a pause, he says. "I'm in this for _ me_."

That seems to satisfy Gavin, at least for the moment. He nods, then pulls the hood of his sweatshirt back up over his mussed hair. "I'll be in touch," he says.

Before he walks away, Connor asks, "What about the reporter? Mallory Davis. The one they found dead."

"What about her?" asks Gavin.

"Someone strangled her to death. She was last seen poking around that GM site your brother owns. She might have seen that hole, found something there." Connor doesn't mention that _ he _ had found something, too. "Do you think Elijah could have anything to do with that?"

Gavin winces, looking very small inside his sweatshirt. "I wouldn't put anything past him. Not when it comes to protecting his interests. But you didn't hear that from me."

Then he tugs the hood tighter around his face and walks away.


	5. Chapter 5

Driving home, Connor is deep in thought. Whatever is haunting Gavin Reed, it’s taking a toll on his body and his mind. Connor doesn’t _ want _ to feel sorry for Gavin, but his sympathy is nearly as strong and immediate as his attraction to Hank was. And, if anything, Hank’s magnetic pull has only gotten stronger. 

Gavin, meanwhile, is gruff, testy, and could be into some shady shit, but the impression Connor has come away with is one of an average guy being kicked around by circumstance. Would his initial thought have been different had he never met Hank? Whether or not Connor should have fought against it, his interactions with Hank—and their _ intimacy_—have given him a taste for danger. 

Before the DK, he’d been happy to keep the things he talked about on the podcast at arm’s length. It might still be that way if he were seeing someone like, say, Markus. Someone with pure intentions. Connor shouldn’t long to find bruises on his body from Hank’s rough hands, shouldn’t yearn to feel sore and used and worn out by his relentless attention. 

Hell, he probably shouldn’t sympathize so much with a rude, skeezy dirtbag like Gavin Reed.

_ But here we are_, he thinks. After the thought enters his mind, however, he’s anxious to drive it out. He doesn’t want to have to think. Let Hank come and test his limits, push his body past the point that his mind can still be rational. Let him send these disturbing notions running with the pressure of his solid bulk, stop up Connor’s mouth with his tongue and fingers and cock.

Nearly as soon as Connor walks in the front door to his building, he hears the text tone he’s assigned to Hank. He goes so quickly for his phone that the bundle of junk mail he’d just pulled out of his mailbox falls to the floor. The text reads:

_ How about a field trip? _

Standing in a flurry of papers, Connor sends his agreement right away. After gathering up the mail again and walking upstairs, the tone sounds again. 

_ Wear sturdy shoes. I’ll show you where we found McCullers. _

Connor doesn’t know why Hank wants to revisit the abandoned plant, but he’s not going to pass up the opportunity. Much as he had on the night they met, he hopes that there won’t be a contingent of other cops tagging along. But, he reasons, why would the task force need to go back to the McCullers dump site? Any evidence would be long gone by now.

It’s only when he’s standing at the curb, afternoon sun warming the dark brown leather of his boots, that he realizes pointing out the spot where the DK buried Byron McCullers probably isn’t Hank’s objective. He needs Connor to show him the pit in the concrete. He wants a lead on the mystery body, which could mean that after Mallory Davis’s murder, he’s looking into Kamski again.

Connor’s heart leaps. Even if by accident, he’s helped redirect an investigation just by being involved. He’s making a difference.

And, more importantly than anything else, Hank needs_ him_.

Even after what happened on the night they met in person, Connor was still pretty sure he’d have to chase Hank down, badger him for information. 

Now, he’s been drawn into the case; he’s not just funneling information through the podcast. He’s a _ source. _ And when he decides to let Hank know what Gavin is telling him, he’ll be even more important, more tied up in the investigation.

Someday, people won’t be able to mention the Deviant Killer without talking about _ Dead to Rights _ in the same breath. 

Connor is so caught up in his grand fantasies that he barely notices the rust-spotted Ford sedan crawling up the street. The sound of screaming brakes brings him back to reality. A puff of foul exhaust from the idling car washes over him, making him cough.

When the cloud dissipates, he looks through the windshield of the rustbucket monster to see Hank behind the wheel. Connor doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t _ this_. Even his own modest little Hyundai is a luxury car by comparison. 

Despite the sketchy ride, when Hank slides his sunglasses partway down his long nose and makes a _ come here _ motion with two fingers, Connor has to fight sudden arousal.

The passenger-side door squeals on its hinges as he opens it and gets inside. The car’s interior smells musty, a little like old fry grease. 

Hank must see his wary frown, because he lets out a laugh, startlingly loud in the small space. “Not so keen on my ride, are you, boy?”

“Not what I was expecting,” Connor admits.

The engine spits and roars when Hank hits the gas. After it’s calmed down to a low growl, he asks, “Do you know why James Bond would be a terrible spy?”

Slightly taken aback, Connor says, “Uh, no.”

“Same reason you’d make a shitty cop.” He looks over, then barks another sharp laugh at Connor’s expression.

He’d tried not to be offended, but obviously failed.

“Too fuckin’ pretty,” Hank clarifies. “Cops, secret agents—anyone in law enforcement—they gotta look like regular people. Gotta blend in, be forgettable.”

“Like this car,” Connor offers. 

“Right. If you turn one person’s head on the street, you’re made. Better to be just another face in the crowd.”

Pleased by the sudden reversal and tingling all over from Hank’s compliment, Connor still says, “_You’re _ not some face in the crowd, either.”

“Don’t flatter me, kid.”

“Not flattery,” Connor says. “It’s true. First off, you’re tall. You make _ me _ feel tiny.” He pauses, drumming up confidence. “And you’re a good-looking man, Hank. _ Incredibly _ sexy. And don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

When he reaches a hand over the console to stroke one bearded cheek, Hank at first stops him short, catching his fingers in a near-crushing grip and making him wince. 

But after a second, his grip eases, and he draws Connor’s hand close to his mouth, kissing the knuckles.

What feels like electricity runs up Connor’s arm from where those lips touched. The feeling intensifies when Hank speaks again. 

“You’re the kind of thing a man could get addicted to,” he says, staring at the road ahead.

The words seem almost out of character, shocking...until Connor realizes they might just signal a crack in Hank’s tough facade. His heart hammers against his ribcage. He can feel it even as the car bumps over cracks and potholes in the neglected road. 

_ Let me in_, Connor thinks. _ The investigation already needs me. I want _ you _ to need me, too. _

Feeling bold, he places a hand lightly on Hank’s thigh. 

Hank grasps his hand and squeezes again, skirting the point of pain: a reminder. “Guess I’d better watch myself,” he says.

For as rough as the ride was, Connor understands Hank’s reason for using this particular car. Almost as soon as they are out of the beat-up Ford, it blends so perfectly with the run-down apartment blocks and boarded-up storefronts that it almost disappears. 

Hank shrugs on a jacket that he’s pulled out of the back seat. 

At first, Connor is confused. Even though the sun is past its peak, the day is still muggy and warm. He nearly says something, but then watches Hank tuck a pistol into one of his jacket pockets and understands at once.

Hank is rolling up the sleeves when Connor notices it’s the same canvas jacket he wore on the night of their first interview. 

The sudden memory of Hank’s taste and smell makes his mouth water. Maybe he won’t mind taking a break to let Connor back him up against a wall in one of those gutted buildings and suck him off. 

“There’s a gap in the fence not too far from here,” Connor says, thumbing saliva from the corners of his mouth.

“Am I gonna fit through it?” asks Hank.

“I think so,” Connor tells him, though now he’s far from sure.

It doesn’t appear likely that Hank will make it through what looks like a much narrower gap than Connor remembers. 

Hank doesn’t seem deterred. He raises one foot and puts it through the opening to the other side of the fence, leaning out toward the street. The metal fencepost doesn’t budge against the slight roundness of his belly, and his shoe barely reaches the ground inside the lot. 

But then, Connor watches with awe—and a little fear, if he’s honest—as Hank braces both hands against the post at chest level and pushes. There’s no movement at first, but then the squeal of bending metal fills the air. Not long afterward, the chain link rattles like bare tree branches, shuddering as it bows outward. When the noise stops, Hank has created a gap half again as wide as it was. One fencepost, bent near ground level, looks very much like it’s shrinking away from him in terror.

“Better,” Hank says, and shoots Connor a grin that isn’t entirely wholesome.

Connor swallows hard, then follows him into the rubble. Somehow it seems even more bleak in full sunlight, with every stain from weather and wear exposed. Even the graffitti looks washed out and almost unreal—like a tissue-thin film laid over the landscape, ready to blow away at any minute.

Hank is walking quickly, taking huge strides and hardly looking at the ground. If Connor does the same, he’s certain he’ll trip and go face-first into a chunk of concrete. Instead, he picks out a more careful path, just trying to keep Hank in view. 

He’s waiting at the doorway of a half-collapsed building, leaning against the wall and tapping one loafer-clad foot on the dusty ground. 

Connor isn’t sure why he never registered it, but Hank is wearing exactly the wrong kind of footwear for what they’re doing. The way he’d walked so easily over the treacherous ground up to that point was nearly supernatural.

“You’ve been here a lot, haven’t you?” Connor asks.

“Yeah,” Hank says, taking off his sunglasses and polishing the lenses absently on his shirt. “Not since the fence went up, but lots of times before.”

“Why?”

“Helps me get in the mindset, I guess.” Squinting, Hank steps across the threshold and halfway into the building’s shadow. The line between shade and brightness runs diagonally from his shoulder down to the opposite thigh. It’s a strange effect that almost makes it look like he’s half underwater. “Being where it started, you know? Like I’m going to get some sort of revelation or break the case open just by standing here.” He huffs a laugh. “Obviously it hasn’t worked yet.” 

Connor feels a rush of sympathy. He can’t begin to know that same frustration. None of his failures have meant someone would die.

“C’mere,” Hank drawls, crooking one finger before he slips entirely into the shade. “Maybe you can breathe a little life into this place.”

Energized, and—as always—a little nervous, Connor follows. 

The air is at least ten degrees cooler inside the old building. Chunks of concrete wall are gouged out, possibly where equipment had been bolted in but was long since looted. The graffitti is brighter, or at least the colors are more saturated as far as Connor can tell. Even with the doors and windows missing, the inner walls are still more protected from the elements.

Hank pulls something from his back pocket and palms it. A beam of white light springs out of his hand—it’s a tiny LED flashlight. He strolls along, studying the graffitti: names overlapping names, a few phrases, some crude pictures.

The light flickers over a huge painted eye: white with a black-brown iris and a black swoop suggesting lid or lashes. There’s a matching one beside it.

Below the pair of eyes, the recently painted words are harder to make out, but still legible:

HE’S WATCHING

Hank looks over and raises one eyebrow, a thin smile on his lips. “That’s new.”

“By ‘he,’ do they mean the DK?” Connor asks.

“No idea.” Hank sighs and switches off the flashlight, slipping it back into his pocket. “The whole city’s watching. Waiting for me to find something.”

_ Again, not “us,” not the task force. Just Hank. _

“I’ll help however I can.” Connor’s words sound meek in his own ears. 

“Oh, you _ are _ helping,” Hank says. He seizes the back of Connor’s neck in an uncompromising grip, hauling him around in front of his body so he’s facing the wall and the looming, almost glowing eyes.

There are fingers digging painfully into Connor’s skin, and another hand tearing at the fly of his jeans. “Hank—” he tries.

_ Tighter_. “Hush.” Hank shoves his hand into Connor’s jeans, massaging firmly with the heel. 

Connor is suddenly aware of where they are, but he couldn’t look around for unwanted voyeurs, even if he tried. Hank’s grip is too tight on him, and it’s not only the physical grasp that’s so firm, so decisive. 

Even though his fear spikes upward, his arousal does, too. He’s growing hard against Hank’s palm. 

It hasn’t escaped Hank’s notice; almost nothing does. “That’s right,” he growls. “I’ve trained you well so far: getting nice and ready for me when I want you.”

Connor shuts his eyes tight and whimpers.

“But there’s still more to do,” Hank continues, rubbing Connor to full hardness through his boxer briefs. “I have so much to teach you. You can become something incredible, Connor, if you let me instruct you. If you can keep being a good boy for me.”

As if to punctuate the words, Hank presses his crotch firmly against Connor’s ass, forcing him to put out a hand and catch himself. The wall feels cold and gritty under his palm. 

“I am,” he says, pushing back against Hank on instinct. “I _ can_. I’ll do whatever you want, Hank.”

With his beard brushing Connor’s skin, his soft lips against his neck, Hank says, “I know you will, sweetheart. I know.” Then his huge hand is sliding under the waistband of Connor’s briefs, grasping his hardness.

Connor moves to push his jeans and briefs down further over his hips, but Hank says “Uh-uh. Only I get to touch right now.”

He’s stroking firmly, and it’s excruciating in the best way. His fear, both paranoia about being seen and the stubborn residual terror that Hank could simply crush him on a whim, only works to heighten his arousal now, putting a lie to his weak attempts to say otherwise. Hank brings the danger and excitement of pursuit so close that it crowds out the thrill of investigating a serial killer. It’s a feeling that would be foreign to Connor even a few weeks ago, a laughable idea. 

Now he only wants the case to continue in order to keep Hank near him, ever the threatening shadow in the corner.

He twists in those thick arms, groaning, begging in whispers.

“Hank...I’m close. I’m going to—”

“I know you are.”

“Please! It’ll be a mess…”

“That’s right,” says Hank. “You’re going to come just like this, soak your pants coming so hard for me. And you’re going to zip right up after I’m done with you, walk around with your shame on display for everyone. So they know what I do to you.”

His eyes stinging, Connor whimpers again. He knows better than to try to wrest himself from Hank’s grasp, though.

“No, _ please_—”

“Oh, yes,” Hank says, tightening the circle of his fingers around Connor’s straining cock. “And you won’t take these off or clean yourself until I give you permission. Isn’t that right?”

“Hank—”

Connor’s teeth click as Hank gives him a rough shake. 

“Say it!”

“Yes!” This final acquiescence breaks the dam and Connor comes, every part of him seeming to strain toward Hank’s hand. Liquid warmth floods over Hank’s knuckles, seeps into the fabric of Connor’s briefs, fluid spreading from the waistband to the hem and trickling between his legs.

He sobs once, humiliated.

It’s already cool when Hank draws his hand out. He pushes his fingers past Connor’s unresisting lips and onto his tongue. “Lick it clean,” he says. 

Maybe one tear slips down Connor’s cheek as he sucks his own come from Hank’s fingers. The taste is sharp, familiar...but it isn’t what he wants. With his own hand, he pushes Hank’s palm against his mouth and whispers, “Please let me taste you.”

Hank kisses his temple and strokes his hair, but he says, “Not yet. But you did very, very well, and you’ll get your reward soon enough.”

Arousal and shame have made the cool air inside the abandoned structure feel warm, so when Connor steps back out into daylight, the heat nearly knocks him over. His crotch is still uncomfortably cool and damp, but at least only a couple of spots of wetness have leaked through to the front of his jeans. Looking at them in the bright sunlight makes him feel embarrassed and desired at the same time. 

“Come on,” Hank says, waving a hand. “Show me where you found that piece of fabric.”

It’s difficult to pick his way through the rubble; Connor is hampered by both the heat and the sticky mess drying against his skin. It will hurt to peel away those layers later...whenever Hank allows him to take his clothes off. However uncomfortable the reality will be, Connor is still turned on by the idea of allowing Hank to control him to this extent. It’s sick, or at least he _ should believe _ it is.

He takes the lead as the evening shadows grow incrementally longer and the heat abates. Landmarks become recognizable; he’s close to the place that he stumbled upon—literally—with Markus and North. A breeze picks up as the sun continues to sink, and Connor imagines he catches the faint odor of rot.

The smell is gone by the time they reach the concrete pit. There’s a small tidepool of water in the bottom, in which a handful of waterlogged cigarette butts float. 

Connor sighs. “Not much chance of digging up any DNA in there now.” He looks up when he feels Hank squeeze his shoulder.

“You got what you could,” Hank tells him. “It was lucky enough that you found it in the first place.”

“Sorry, Hank,” Connor says.

Hank grabs him hard by the shoulders and spins Connor to face him, giving him a rough shake. “No!” he hisses. “Don’t you ever, _ ever _ apologize for things you can’t control. It makes you look _ weak_, Connor! I know you’re not weak.” After another shake, he lets go, allowing Connor to stumble back a step or two.

Hank scrubs a hand over his face; right now he looks impossibly weary, as if shouldering the responsibility of the DK case and dealing with Connor has overwhelmed him.

To avoid apologizing again, Connor bites his lip. 

Hank shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to get in your face,” he says. “But you have to understand: you can’t just let things happen and watch them go by. Anything you can control, go out and grab it. _ Direct _ it. Because there will always be things outside your reach. So you find whatever you can use to your advantage and you pull it close. Do you understand?”

Connor doesn’t, not fully, but he’s still wary of contradicting Hank in this volatile mood. “Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he says.

Some of the shadow over Hanks’ face lifts, and he nods. “Let’s head back to the car. I’ll send that scrap of cloth out for fiber analysis. Maybe we can find out where it was made or something.”

When they get back to the place where Hank’s beat-up car is parked, Connor sees a dark lump by one of the front wheels. He thinks it might be an obstacle or a trick of the evening light, until it moves. 

“Hey!” he calls, and runs toward the gap in the fence.

The shape, which turns out to be a person, stands up and looks back toward them. In a split second, he takes off running, holding something in his hand that glints in the buttery sun. 

Connor turns back and immediately ducks down. Hank has drawn his gun and holds it pointed toward the sky. He runs past Connor, who cringes, expecting a deafening shot any moment.

It doesn’t come. 

Instead, he hears Hank rattle the fence and swear softly to himself. 

Rising on wobbly knees, Connor asks, “Who was that?”

“No idea,” says Hank. “But he slashed my goddamn tire.”

_ Kamski_. It’s the first thing that Connor thinks and the first thing he says.

Hank makes a noncommittal sound, but he doesn’t correct him. 

It’s a little thrilling to Connor that he and Hank might be considering the same thing. When he slides through the gap in the fence, Hank is rummaging in the car’s trunk.

He hauls out a rust-covered jack and lug wrench and a spare tire with blooms of oxidation all over its iron wheelhub.

Frowning, Connor says, “That doesn’t look too sturdy.”

Hank waves him off, then drops the tools onto the concrete. Chunks of rust fly off the tire iron and skitter over hot tarmac. 

At least the jack seems less compromised. Connor has sudden, disturbing visions of the thing giving way and the car falling right on Hank’s head. “Let me call roadside assistance,” he tries, but Hank has already shoved the old-fashioned jack behind the wheel well and is cranking it up. 

Briefly, Connor entertains the idea of offering to help. Chunks of rust are still coming off the lug wrench, staining Hank’s big, rough hands. But he loves watching those hands, the muscles flexing in that broad back, the biceps that strain even against his jacket. Halfway through removing the lug nuts, Hank sheds the jacket.

There is a thin trail of sweat soaked into his shirt from the middle of his shoulder blades to the line of his belt. And, Jesus, Connor wants to reach out and touch it, to lean closer and catch the heady scent of Hank’s body. His pure physical power is dizzying. The hands grasping and wrenching the tire iron—Connor wants them on his body, to bruise him, to wrap around his neck.

He finds his mouth watering. The patches of dried and flaking come begin to itch where they glue his briefs to his lower belly. 

With economical movements and small grunts, Hank pulls the old tire free and mounts the spare, then tightens the bolts again. When he’s done, he lets the car down with a thump and tosses the rusty jack and wrench into the back seat. Clapping his palms against one another sends more tiny particles of rust filtering down to the dirty pavement.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here, shall we?”

When Connor gets in the passenger seat, he can smell sweat and the faint spice of Hank’s antiperspirant. He places his fingertips lightly on Hank’s knuckles when he goes to start the car. 

Hank pulls his hand away quickly, almost as if Connor’s fingertips are burning hot. Then he shakes his head. It’s clear he’s preoccupied, distracted.

“Let me help you relax,” Connor says. “Please.”

With his palms resting on the wheel, Hank asks, “What’d you have in mind?”

Instead of answering, Connor leans over and goes for the buckle of Hank’s belt. 

“Later, kid,” Hank says, but it’s halfhearted.

“We won’t be here later,” says Connor, and apparently that’s all it takes. 

Hank shifts lower in the seat and spreads his legs invitingly.

The concentrated scents of man and sweat and exertion rise up from the open front of Hank’s jeans, and Connor breathes in as he mouths along the outline of his hardening cock over the fabric of his briefs.

“Go on, then,” Hank mutters, and bucks his hips slightly, but it’s a good-natured sort of impatient. As good-natured as he gets.

And really, Connor is in no mood to wait, either. He pulls Hank’s thick cock free and slides it to the back of his throat, gagging slightly, loving the sensation of fullness. He’s far too impatient for Hank to fuck him already, lay him back and split him apart and leave him sweaty and spent and half-delirious. 

Soon enough, Hank is thrusting solidly through the circle of his fingers and into his mouth. 

The only warning Connor gets is a low grunt before Hank comes, warmth flooding down his throat. He swallows all he’s given, making helpless little sounds in between.

Hank growls. “I can’t decide what I like better: the way you look or the way you sound while you suck cock.”

Pulling away, Connor wipes at his lips and chin. “I just want you to like how it feels.”

“Yeah,” Hank says. “Yeah. Fasten me up. Let’s get the fuck out of here. He leaves Connor at his apartment with a reminder not to shower or undress until he’s given permission. 

His underwear is stiff and tacky and uncomfortable, but Connor waits. He doesn’t, however, think that reaching into his pants once again to jerk off will break the prohibition...at least if he buttons up afterward.

While he lies drowsy on his bed, he considers not airing the episode he’s already recorded. The one with the information from Gavin. Hank is too important for him to be so cavalier about compromising the investigation.

With that thought in his mind, Connor drifts off. He wakes after midnight, when Hank texts, finally allowing him to strip and shower.

**

Markus isn’t at the library when Connor arrives the following morning. It isn’t that he’s _ never _ been late, but his absence puts Connor on edge. 

His mind had already been in turmoil over releasing the episode about the two different boot prints on the DK victims’ necks. When he’d woken up that morning, he’d also realized the run-in with the stranger slashing Hank’s tire had gotten to him more than he’d originally been willing to admit. 

So after ten minutes pass and Markus still hasn’t showed, Connor struggles to contain his anxiety. When he hears his text tone, he stops in the middle of helping a patron find an article in a medical journal to answer it. 

The text _ is _ from Markus, but Connor’s relief proves short-lived. The message reads:

_ Someone is threatening us. Got a call last night, _

_ disguised voice. Someone knocked on North’s door. _

_ She’s staying with me 4 now. Has to be Kamski. _

“Fuck,” Connor whispers to himself, prompting an indignant huff from the middle-aged patron. He mutters, “Sorry,” then walks away, barely hearing the patron at her terminal call after him. As soon as he’s out on the library steps he’s on the phone.

Markus sounds exhausted and wary when he answers. 

“Why didn’t you call me?” Connor asks. 

“You wouldn’t have been able to do anything.” 

Despite the fact that it’s true, what Markus said still hurts. “I can support you, dude,” Connor says, trying to keep irritation out of his voice. “You guys could always stay at my place.”

Markus’s laugh is bitter and steely. “What makes you think _ you’re _ safe?”

That sends a chill running through Connor’s body. The hair at the back of his neck stands on end. He honestly hadn’t considered until now what implications—if any—it might have for him if Markus is being harassed by a Kamski operative. It’s because, really, he feels so protected by Hank. Not that Hank has explicitly offered to protect him from anything, but he looms so large in Connor’s mind and in his life—he seems so utterly assured and completely _ terrifying_—that the idea of feeling under threat seems foreign and distant. Like it could only happen to someone else.

Of course, now it _ has_. But he finds it hard to absorb the message.

“Do you know the knocking on North’s door was related to the guy threatening you?” Connor asks.

“It wasn’t just knocking,” Markus says, sounding peevish. “It was _ pounding_. She said it went on for a few minutes, too.”

“Did whoever it was tell you they were going to hurt her?” asks Connor.

Markus pauses. “No. Not by name. But if someone’s pounding on your door, you’re going to be scared, right?”

“Yeah—”

“Look, Connor, do you believe me or not?”

“Of course I do!” Connor says. He tries to remind himself that Markus is stressed and worried and not to take it personally. Still, part of him can’t help but feel slightly betrayed that Markus didn’t think to call. “What are you going to do?”

With a sigh, Markus says, “I called the DPD, ‘cause that’s what you’re supposed to do. Not sure if the guy I talked to listens to the podcast or not, but he said it was probably a prank call, somebody stirring up shit.”

Tentatively, Connor asks, “But you don’t think so?”

“No. Not at all. Do you?”

Connor doesn’t answer right away. His first instinct is to go to Hank. But he doesn’t want to disappoint him or distract him. Even with the joint episode, _ The Revolution _ isn’t _ really _ concerned with the Deviant Killer. Whether Elijah Kamski is the DK, and whether he’s threatening people who are digging up dirt on his land deals might just be two totally separate considerations.

No, he’s not going to say anything to Hank. Not yet.

But he’s also in touch with someone who’s closer to Kamski than anyone else: Gavin.


	6. Chapter 6

If it’s possible, Gavin looks even more worn-down than last time when he rolls up in a trashed Nissan so old it’s practically vintage. 

_ What is it with cops and beat-up cars? _

Connor’s late-model sedan looks way out of place parked in the shade of an abandoned furniture store. He stands next to it, sweating, after a practically useless shift. Markus hadn’t come to work at all, not that Connor really blames him.

Inside his car, his sunglasses still on, Gavin takes the time to pull out a bent cigarette, light it, and take a long drag that fills the cabin and pours out when he opens the door. 

“Someone’s threatening my friend,” Connor tells him right away. “Markus Manfred. The guy who does the _ Revolution _ podcast. He’s been on your brother’s trail for a couple months.”

Gavin coughs. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

For a moment, Connor is silent. He hasn’t really thought about what he might ask Gavin for, or whether he can ask for anything at all. “Well, uh, I…” he starts. “I mean, do you think that’s something he would do?”

Squinting through a plume of smoke at Connor, Gavin purses his lips. “I told you last time Elijah protects his interests. Outside of that, no idea.”

Connor’s gut feels like it’s full of cold lead. In a softer voice, he asks, “Did you know anything about it?”

Scoffing, Gavin says, “Do you think he’d tell me, the _ police officer_?”

“Um—”

“How does your friend know it’s Elijah, anyway?” asks Gavin, then pulls another long drag from his foul-smelling cigarette.

“He doesn’t,” Connor says, feeling defensive. “But who else could it be? If not Kam—Elijah directly, then someone who works for him.”

“Look, kid,” Gavin says, tossing the cigarette butt away. It hits the concrete with a tiny starburst of sparks, then rolls to a stop, smoldering. “Whatever your friend is mixed up in, you don’t have to be. Just don’t step into that ring, you get me?”

Connor tries not to grit his teeth. “But if your brother is the DK—”

“Then the fucking cops’ll handle it.” Gavin pulls up the hem of his hoodie to reveal his sidearm tucked into the waistband of his jeans. “You know, the people with the _ guns _ and the _ legal authority_?”

“You’re not on the task force.”

“No. And if Lije is involved in this, then it’s for the best. I’m not going to be the conflict of interest that gets the whole thing tossed out of court. So how ‘bout you step off, Junior.”

Even though he thinks Gavin is being confrontational—even for _ Gavin_—Connor backs down. He raises his hands in the air, palms out, a concession. “I’m just worried about my friends,” he says. “That’s all.”

Gavin shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and stares at his feet.

Connor can barely hear him when he speaks again.

“Yeah,” says Gavin, “I’ve got people to worry about, too.”

It’s not clear at all whether he means his brother, himself, or someone else entirely. Connor decides not to pursue it. At least, not now. If he wants to know more, he might have to resort to something other than _ asking _ Gavin.

“Okay,” he says. “Thanks for your help.”

Gavin looks up sharply, his expression sour until he seems to realize that Connor is being sincere. Then, he says, “Yeah. Well, sorry about your friends. Be safe, kid.”

Connor watches him drive away until his rickety old beater is out of sight. 

_ Sorry about your friends_. Like Markus and North had been hurt instead of just frightened. Gavin’s words have done nothing to make the situation clearer. What may be worse is the sliver of doubt that’s now working its way toward the core of trust Connor had built up. First impressions _ can _ be deceiving; it’s possible that Gavin is protecting his brother after all. He could be covering his own ass, too...or being evasive for another reason altogether. 

Lost in thought and worry, Connor almost drives away. At the last minute, he pulls a paper napkin out of his glove box and uses it to pick up the discarded cigarette butt. He stubs it a couple of times against the concrete to make sure the flame is out, then wraps it and puts it in his pocket.

**

Connor is confused and feeling a little betrayed as he drives. It took a while for it to sink in, but he’s afraid now, too. He keeps checking his phone for calls from unknown numbers. Nearing his street, it occurs to him that he doesn’t want to go back to his apartment if it’s only to find out that someone has been there...or to wait for some stranger to come knocking.

The decision he makes is one that he’ll later remember as needing almost no consideration—almost like flipping a switch. He pulls over and does a quick search on his phone, and within minutes is on his way to J.L. Curtin Firearms and Shooting Range.

The owner probably gets a lot of flack for that name. _ It’s Curtin’s for you! _

But a couple of online reviewers write that it’s a good place for beginners to find the right gun. Connor feels a pinprick of guilt; Markus doesn’t believe in owning guns, and no doubt he’ll pass judgment if he ever finds out. 

That being said, Markus also—at least to Connor’s knowledge—has never had his life or safety threatened like this before. 

In the store, with patrons blasting away at targets behind thick layers of safety glass, Connor meets a fifty-something woman with kind eyes and streaks of white in her blonde hair. Turns out Lara Vollmer is the daughter of the original owner, but uses her married name.

Connor’s heart is beating double-time when Lara offers to let him try a few handgun models in the range area. At first, he can hardly stop his hands from trembling and making the shots go wildly off-target. But he soon gets used to the stance, the recoil, the motions, and the bullets start popping into the paper with greater regularity.

After nearly three hours, he ends up with a Springfield SDM nine millimeter pistol that Lara shows him how to load, unload, clean, and store. She talks him into a waistband holster so he can carry the gun under his shirt. He’s out the door with those plus a box of hollow-points, feeling much more assured.

It’s not long, though, before Connor has to wonder what Hank will think...or if he’ll tell him at all.

**

The next day, Markus returns to work. He looks terribly haggard: his skin ashen, his eyes dull and bloodshot. North is with him, and she doesn’t look any better.

Connor goes in for a hug at first, but realizes he’s wearing his holster and sidearm, and settles for patting Markus’s shoulder and holding North’s cold, clammy hands in his own for a few moments. 

Neither seems reassured. And Connor isn’t eager to tell them that no one is threatening him.

“Hey,” he says, “I talked to my contact with the force.” For a second or two, he debates saying anything more, but if fudging a few details will make Markus feel better and take some of this uncomfortable phantom pressure off, he’s willing to do it. “They’ve been looking into Kamski on and off for a while. My guy knows him pretty well.” 

_ That last statement, at least, isn’t untrue. _

“Do they think it’s him? His organization?” asks North.

She phrases it like Elijah Kamski is some sort of mob boss. Connor isn’t entirely willing to discount the possibility.

“He’s definitely capable of it.” It’s a safe answer, but it sparks a brief glimmer of hope in the way Markus and North look at each other.

“We’re willing to talk with the police,” Markus says. “But I know any connection to Kamski is circumstantial right now.”

Connor nods, feeling absurdly grateful that he isn’t pushing the issue.

“We should try to find out if Kamski’s done anything like this to anyone else in the past,” says North.

A nod from Markus. “I wonder if he threatened Mallory before…” He trails off, but the unspoken words hang in the air between them.

_ Before he killed her. _

North turns to Connor. “Did your contact—that lieutenant—say anything about Mallory?”

“He can’t talk about it,” Connor says right away. “Especially not to someone like me.” It’s a play for solidarity, plus it keeps Markus from thinking he has any sort of special access or privilege.

Markus nods again, looking grave. “Podcasters are in no man’s land, especially with law enforcement. We’re part reporter, part private detective, and part civilian: three things cops hate.”

“Yeah,” Connor says, trying to back up the word with indignation he doesn’t feel. A little guilt hasn’t yet stopped him from keeping quiet about the details that give him an advantage. 

Then, the question he’s been dreading comes. 

“Has anybody contacted you or approached you?” asks Markus.

“Oh.” Connor swallows hard. There _ was _ the guy slashing Hank’s tire...but he’s desperate to hide the extent of their relationship from Markus and North. 

He clears his throat. “Yeah, there was a car outside my building all last night. Just parked under the window.” He doesn’t know where the lie came from, but it’s out of his mouth before he knows it. “A real beater. I couldn’t see the person inside, and I sure as hell wasn’t going out.” 

Their concerned expressions don’t help ease his guilt. 

“We need to stick together,” North says. “We could take turns staying at each other’s houses. Safety in numbers. Plus, the more we move, the harder it could be to pin us down.”

Connor’s insides feel cold, and he curses himself for the impromptu lie. If he plays along with this, there’s no way he’ll get to be alone with Hank unless it’s in public. Or the car again, like they’re teenagers trying to hide from watchful parents. He _ could _ ask to stay at Hank’s place, but he realizes he’s not comfortable enough to make that request. 

In truth, he has no idea how Hank Anderson lives, or where. They’ve only ever met at his apartment. If Hank’s house is anything like his car, Connor probably doesn’t want to see it, anyway.

“Come on, guys,” he says to North and Markus. “I don’t think we need to go that far. Not yet. I mean, we don’t even know that it’s Kamski for sure.”

Markus frowns. “That’s not the point. Doesn’t matter who it is, what matters is that it’s happening.”

“Did somebody bother you again last night?” asks Connor.

“‘Bothering’ is kind of an understatement,” Markus says.

“Anyway,” says North, “there was someone at _ your _ place. You seem kind of unconcerned for a guy who got spied on the whole night.”

When Connor realizes he’s holding one hand over his chest, the fingers curled into a fist, he forces himself to relax. The two of them are backing him into a corner. Unlike them, _ he _ doesn’t feel unsafe—now carrying the gun. And there’s always Hank…

But it would be idiotic to back down from the lie, tell them there had been no shadowy man in a beat-up car. 

“Why don’t you two stay at my place tonight,” he finally offers. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch. We can talk about what to do after work.”

North and Markus share a look weighted with some emotion Connor can’t pin down, then North nods. Her _ Thank you _ sounds less than sincere. 

In any case, he is too put out at this point to care. 

After Markus and Connor close the library down for the night, they caravan toward Connor’s place. 

Before they’d left, North went to get into Markus’s car, but at the last minute swung into Connor’s passenger seat instead. She’d tapped her slim fingers nervously on one knee, over her ripped jeans, while he started the car and pulled away. 

If the simmering resentment he’d felt at the start of the day had cooled, it all came rushing back when she spoke. 

“Why do you think Kamski might be after you?” she asked. “Didn’t the police rule him out as the serial killer?”

His voice tight, Connor said, “I don’t know where you heard that, but no. I’m looking into something else he might be involved in.”

“What is it?” North asked.

“I...I don’t want to put you and Markus in any more danger.” Hardly the truth; he wanted to keep Gavin’s existence, his possible involvement, to himself. 

“Bull_ shit_,” North shot back right away. “You want an exclusive. You’ve always been jealous of Markus’s work. His success. And now that you’re getting traction because you interviewed one measly cop, you think you’re big shit.”

The words hit a sour, ugly note deep within Connor, but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking he wouldn’t answer because she was right. It was idiotic to hoard secrets and shoulder the danger alone like he was doing, but he already craved it beyond concern for North’s feelings. Or Markus’s for that matter. 

Hank had made certain of that.

“Listen,” Connor hissed, “creative people get jealous sometimes. We support each other, but there’s a kind of rivalry, too. You wouldn’t understand.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Because I’m not a fancy college boy with a useless liberal arts degree?”

Fighting to keep his eyes on the road, he asked, “Does Markus know you think of him like that?”

She seemed chastened, but only a little. 

He decided to jump in again, cut off any further protests. “I know it sounds like bragging, but I’m not lying when I tell you that some seriously dangerous people have noticed DTR. People other than Kamski. It’s not all internet true crime fanboys working out of their mother’s basement, either. So how about you get off my ass, considering I didn’t just let you and Markus take your chances alone.”

“Fine.” North raised her eyebrows, but said nothing more.

Now, they’re walking into Connor’s building, Connor silent and annoyed as he walks up the narrow staircase. The pistol in its holster feels bulky and chafes against his skin, and he’s ready to take it off. As Markus and North settle down in the living room, he steps into his closet and sheds the gun belt with a sigh of relief. He tucks it behind a stack of jeans in the same place he’s got Gavin’s used cigarette butt sealed in a plastic sandwich bag.

Feeling pleased with his moment of forethought, Connor changes into sweatpants and heads back out. 

Markus, who’s holding a frosty bottle, raises it and gives him a half-guilty look. “We liberated a couple of your beers,” he says.

For a moment, Connor thinks twice about joining them. He doesn’t want any amount of alcohol clouding his judgment or loosening his tongue. But his mouth is parched and he’s desperate to relax. Rubbing his stiff neck, he smiles. “I’ll liberate one myself.” 

On his way into the kitchen, he points at Markus and says, “You’re buying when we stay at your place.”

“Deal,” Markus says with a grin.

Connor had said earlier that they should talk about strategy, how to keep each other safe. But as soon as the three of them are settled around the coffee table—Markus and North on the couch and Connor in the old papasan chair he’s had since college—the conversation turns frivolous. Honestly, it’s a relief to talk about movies, sports, this thing on Insta or that TikTok. Leaving everything aside for now and act like any other group of young professionals hanging out after work. 

They order huge amounts of Chinese food for delivery; when it arrives, it’s more than any of them could eat by themselves in an entire week.

When Connor at last settles down onto the couch to sleep, he’s full and happy and drowsy, and everything feels _ normal_...if only for a little while. 

**

The truce, such as it is, holds through the following day. Better than that, though, is the fact that none of the three has gotten a threatening phone call. 

No one had knocked on Connor’s door the previous night, and he’d made a show of looking out onto the empty street once or twice the evening before to reassure Markus and North. 

He had said nothing of the possibility that a very real shadowy figure could show up in his very real broken-down car. As he’d told them next to nothing about Hank, an encounter like that could set them on edge and shatter the fragile atmosphere of temporary safety and calm. 

It’s a bad idea for Markus and North to crash at his place for now, Connor decides. Just in case. If the calls and late-night visits start up again, he’ll stow his pride and stay over at Markus’s. 

As morning slides into afternoon, Connor’s mind keeps returning to one point, rubbing the idea raw. Why had he even made Hank the mystery threat in his fake story? That concerns him more than the fact that it was a lie. Sure, he’ll admit that Hank scares him a little, but maybe he wants Hank to scare Markus, as well. To come out of the fog like a bogeyman and prove that he’s just as menacing as anything Kamski can dish out. Perhaps more so.

North had missed a key element when she’d called him out yesterday in the car. 

Yes, he wants the better story, the more sensational case. But while she and Markus play it safe and try not to get tangled in the net they’ve helped to weave, Connor is willing to walk right into it.

He leaves the library that evening to a text from Gavin. In his pocket, his phone shudders against the carbon-alloy barrel of the Springfield, and the urge to check the pistol’s lock switches feels suddenly overwhelming. 

After scanning the near-empty parking lot, Connor pulls the weapon free and touches each of the three safety points. All are engaged. With a sigh, he pops the glove box and puts the gun inside.

The text reads:

_ r u going to use the stuff i gave u or what _

Connor frowns. He has to assume Gavin means the forensic information he’d leaked at their first meeting—the stuff about the different boot sizes. At once, his heart feels like it’s sinking into his gut. Gavin had promised to send printouts; could someone have gotten into his mail and taken a bundle of crime scene photos and reports?

Fingers trembling, he texts back:

_ You never sent anything. I’m not going to _

_ just put anything out there w/out evidence. _

A full, heart-stopping minute passes before Gavin gets back to him.

_ shit dude u think its easy to find a place to _

_ print a ton of pics of dead ppl, give me a bteak _

Connor figures Gavin isn’t typically a stickler for grammar and spelling, but these texts are hurried, almost incoherent, compared with the first ones they’d exchanged. He types:

_ I don’t need all of it. A couple pictures, maybe _

_ the forensic analysis for Wharton & Prutzman_

After a moment, he adds:

_ Please. _

Following this is another excruciating pause. Connor looks around the parking lot. The trees on its periphery shiver in a warm, late-afternoon breeze, sending flickers of leaf-shadow over the concrete. He flinches slightly when the text tone goes off again.

_ ok i will txt you 2-3 images. i need you to _

_ get this info out connor _

Seeing his own name in the text bubble affects Connor in a way he can’t really identify. He should be annoyed that Gavin is being so demanding, but instead the words on the screen seem to exude a kind of desperation. It only prods his curiosity about the man’s motives. 

Before he’d gotten the texts, Connor had been looking forward to going home and relaxing. Now, he finds himself far too keyed up. After a minute or so of internal debate, he puts the address for J.L. Curtin Firearms into the maps app on his phone and starts the car.

The shooting range is busy, far more so than when Connor had first gone in. He’s self-conscious as he enters, carrying borrowed hearing protection and equipment so new it squeaks. But he soon finds that the others on the range—mostly men, but a couple of women—are indifferent to his lack of experience. 

Once, a middle-aged guy sees him struggling a little to reload the magazine and steps in to help. The man has a salt-and-pepper beard and kind eyes; he’s wiry where Hank is stocky. Connor can’t help but compare the two, and he discovers that this man’s patience and gentle hands fail to kindle the same spark inside him as Hank’s crude words and rough grip. Could be that makes him sick beyond redemption, but he finds he’s unable to care. 

He thanks the bearded man for his help, shakes his hand, and turns to blow another tight cluster of holes in the paper target, imagining Hank’s bulk beside him all the while, steadying his arm. 

An hour later, flushed and sweating from exertion, Connor steps out onto a sidewalk shrouded in summer twilight. In the brief golden flash from the Hyundai’s parking lights when he unlocks it, he sees a familiar car. 

At first, he thinks it’s Hank’s old beater. Although it’s just as boxy and nearly as dented, this one is smaller, the color obviously different even in the fading light. He nearly ducks behind his own little sedan when recognition hits.

It’s Gavin’s Nissan. Right here, just across the street from the firing range. Connor crouches and opens the driver-side door as quietly as possible, sliding into the seat. He shuts the door right away to keep the overhead dome light off.

No more than a couple minutes later, Gavin walks out of a takeout place. Under the sallow light of the cracked plastic sign, he stuffs his wallet into his jeans pocket, a large, brown paper bag balanced in the crook of his arm. 

Connor tells himself not to flinch when Gavin casts a look around before getting into his car. He wants to look like just another guy getting ready to leave, fooling with his seatbelt or his bluetooth.

Definitely _ not _ like a guy with gunpowder-dusted hands who’s planning to stalk an off-duty cop.

When Gavin starts the engine, Connor notices one of his taillights is out. He sniffs. Not much chance of getting ticketed for that. One thing Markus is right to complain about: cops get away with things, big and small, that civilians never can.

Connor could keep his headlights off as he crawls away from the curb; the street is well lit. But he figures that’s more likely to get him noticed, so he pops the lights on and sets out. 

It turns out to be so short a drive that he’s honestly shocked the detective had taken his car. 

Gavin pulls up along the curb on a residential street so suddenly that Connor has to brake as he passes just to see the house number. 

He leaves his car safely out of view around the next corner, wishing it was chilly enough to justify a scarf or hoodie to hide his face. In the trunk, he finds the next best thing: an old baseball cap with a bent brim that he can pull low over his eyes. After a few seconds’ consideration, he stows the pistol. It’ll do him no good getting arrested...or shot.

When he peers around the edge of the house on the corner, Gavin is still standing at the door. 

Connor watches him scrub a hand over his face and yawn, then press the doorbell again.

This time, the lamp above the stoop switches on. Even from where he stands, Connor can see the glass is clean and bright, free from the usual snowdrift of dust and dead bugs. After a moment, the front door opens, flooding the walk with a buttery glow.

A figure steps into the light. 

Connor squints and cranes his neck. It’s a woman—petite and slight—her graying hair caught up in a frizzy topknot.

Gavin passes the grease-spotted bag of takeout over to her, then bends to kiss her cheek. The woman puts one small, white hand on his shoulder and ushers him inside, then both of them are gone.

Eyes wide, his pulse picking up, Connor walks toward the house. Even with a busy street only two blocks over, the neighborhood is eerily quiet. Over the western horizon, the last pale fingers of twilight recede and disappear. Closer to the small, single-story home, Connor can still catch the smell of fried food hanging in the air. Another odor lingers below it—either baked goods or something artificial made to smell like it. It isn’t really a scent he’d ever associate with Gavin. 

But with the older woman? Possibly.

After checking to see that no one is looking out the house’s front windows, he peers into Gavin’s car. The interior holds pretty much what he expects: debris from a life lived outside of any regular schedule. There are two travel mugs in the center console, one in each cup holder. A third lies on its side on the passenger seat, nestled in a deflated and threadbare hoodie. Crammed in the passenger-side footwell is one of those reflective windshield covers; it doesn’t look like it gets much use. The back seats are a mess of fast food wrappers and bags, soda cans, napkins. Amid the grease-stained chaos, Connor sees a small pillow and the kind of barely-there felt blanket you get on airplane flights crushed against the armrest.

Out of nowhere, a pang of pity strikes him so hard he nearly doubles over.

With another look toward the front door, he walks around to the side of the house, where a square of yellow light falls from a first-story window onto a swath of dark, velvety summer grass. Peering through the glass at an angle, Connor can only see the woman. In the clearer light, her resemblance to Gavin is strong. 

_ If she’s Gavin’s mother, then she’s also Elijah Kamski’s mother_. 

The thought strikes Connor as strange, especially as he watches her brush tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand, one after the other. Gavin had told him that neither his father nor his brother’s had been a particularly stellar human being, but it’s hard not to think of whoever produced Kamski as the worse of the two. Elijah had clearly inherited close to none of his mother’s empathy. 

All at once, the whole scenario feels sordid, like Connor is a sleazy tabloid reporter creeping around behind some movie star’s privacy fence. From following Gavin’s car to spying in the bushes—all of it seems _ wrong_. Worse, it isn’t something he can imagine Hank doing. Just over a day after Connor had lied about Hank casing his apartment, here he is, sticking his nose in something that likely has no connection to the DK case.

He closes his eyes and breathes in slowly. When he opens them, he feels more centered. It’s time to leave. Just head back to his car and drive away. He glances one last time at the well-lighted room beyond the glass. 

Gavin’s mother is standing closer to the window, a mug of something in her hand. 

Connor gasps softly and crouches down while she surveys the lawn outside. He’s craning his neck to see if she’s still there when a pair of rough hands hauls him upright by his t-shirt and slams him against the brick wall of the house.

All the air leaves his lungs in a rush and stars swim in his field of vision. The baseball cap is pulled askew on his head. “I—” he starts, panicking.

“How long have you been following me?” Gavin is right up in his face, his fists still clutching handfuls of Connor’s shirt, knuckles digging into Connor’s chest hard enough to bruise.

“A few...few blocks!” Connor stammers. “I’m not following—I just saw your car. I’m sorry!”

Maybe Gavin’s grip relaxes a little. “Why were you in this neighborhood?”

His shoulder blades pressed painfully against the brick, Connor tries to catch his breath. “I’m learning to shoot. Self-defense.”

The grip tightens again, knuckles pressing into Connor’s sternum while Gavin uses the other to furiously pat him down. “Am I going to find a gun on you, assole?”

“No, no!” Connor wheezes, his voice gone squeaky. “I left it in the car! In the car!” The hat tumbles off his head.

“Gavin?” A woman’s voice calls from the front of the house.

“Go inside, Ma!” Gavin bellows, loud enough to make Connor wince.

“Is everything okay?” she calls again.

“It’s fine!” Gavin shouts. “Just go back inside!”

Connor sighs his relief when he hears the front door close, but that relief is short-lived.

Gavin now has a hand around his throat. “How do I know you’re not working for Lije?”

“What?” Connor tries to say the word, but all that comes out is a strangled hiss of air. He shakes his head instead. Mercifully, the fingers around his neck loosen. “Hank Anderson,” he sputters. “I’m working with him.”

At that, Gavin lets go completely and steps back, skepticism written all over his face. “Anderson,” he says, almost to himself. To Connor, he says, “Is he telling you not to release my info?”

“What?” asks Connor again. “No. I, uh, I haven’t told him about you.”

Standing for long moments, silent, Gavin frowns. Then he steps forward and pats Connor’s shoulder. “Smart,” he says. “Good job, kid.”

Connor is suspicious at once. “Why? Why is that smart?”

“Anderson hates my guts,” Gavin says. “And he keeps a tight hold on task force info. Getting appointed by Chief Fowler has really gone to his head. Acting like a goddamn dictator. It’s gonna end up dragging this case out, and I’m pretty sure that’s what he wants.”

Straightening his shirt, his heartbeat slowly regulating, Connor ventures, “Because he likes the power?”

“You’re working with the guy,” Gavin tells him. “What do you think?”

Truth was, Connor can absolutely see it, but he doesn’t want to say anything out loud. “Maybe Hank—uh, Lieutenant Anderson—just wants to be sure before he makes a move,” he says instead.

For the first time, pure desperation is plain on Gavin’s face. “Yeah, well, in the meantime I have to come out here and try to convince my mom to stay away from her son, and I can’t tell her why.”

“Elijah,” Connor says.

“Of _ course _ Elijah!” Gavin practically spits the words. “The only person my brother cares about is himself. I can handle my mom, but you better learn that quick before you get caught up in some truly heinous shit.”

Feeling chastened, Connor nods, unable to look at Gavin. 

“You said you’re learning to shoot?” Gavin asks him.

“Uh, yeah.”

Another pat on his shoulder. “Good. Keep that gun close, and don’t leave your house without it. Somebody comes up to you or your friends, don’t wait too long to pull the trigger. ‘Cause the other guy won’t hesitate. Understand?”

Connor nods and mumbles, “Yeah.”

“Good,” Gavin says, scooping Connor’s hat up from the brush and shoving it at him. “Now get the fuck out of here and don’t come back.”

**

It takes a long time for the adrenaline pounding through Connor’s body to thin out and fade. When the jagged tension at last drains from his muscles, he’s exhausted. A hot shower will leach the last of his anxiety away, after which he plans to collapse into bed without doing too much thinking.

However, his taxed senses rev up again when he sees a busted-up sedan parked across the street from his building. His car’s headlights flash over the windshield, briefly illuminating a head of gray hair and bright, hooded eyes.

_ Of course it’s Hank_.

Connor’s heart leaps with want and with fear; the two are becoming indistinguishable when it comes to his interactions with the lieutenant. He pulls his car into the complex’s small parking lot, then hurries to tuck the holster back into his jeans and the pistol inside it before he gets out. 

Hank is already walking across the street, huge and imposing in the half-dark, but not lumbering or clumsy. Rather, he moves like a big cat, every step deliberately placed.

Any words are swept from Connor’s mouth and all thoughts from his head as Hank pulls him close with one big hand on the back of his neck and kisses him hard right in the middle of the road. Hot desire flares deep in his belly when they break and Hank smiles crookedly, swiping saliva away from Connor’s lower lip with the pad of his thumb. 

“Missed you, baby boy,” Hank says. Then: “I want you. Right now.”

Connor knows he doesn’t have a choice, and he doesn’t care. “Yes,” he whispers against Hank’s bearded cheek. He leads the way upstairs, with big, rough hands stroking his thighs and pinching his ass. He’s half-hard in his jeans by the time he reaches the landing and fumbles his keys from his pocket.

Hank is solid and warm behind him, pressed against his body, whispering filthy things in his ear. 

Opening the door seems to take an age. At last they stumble inside, Hank spinning Connor around and grabbing for him at the same time that he kicks the door shut. 

Warm hands and lips are all over him, the sensations already driving him mad, and Connor forgets about everything until Hank’s fingers slide up under his shirt and trail over the pistol grip.

“Hmm.” Hank sounds more amused than concerned. With one strong arm, he clutches Connor to him and flips the catch on the holster at Connor’s belt line. “Now, what have we got here?”

“Hank…” Connor whimpers against his shoulder. His face burns with shame, though he doesn’t understand why. 

The way Hank draws the gun out of its holster is like a caress, a sex act in itself. 

Connor flinches when he feels the cold barrel sliding up his flank and underneath his shoulder blade.

Hank only eases his tight hold when he finally pulls the gun free entirely, holding it in front of his chest, between him and Connor. He hefts the thing, appraising. “Feeling threatened, sweetheart?” he asks.

“A couple of my friends,” Connor says, by way of pathetic explanation, “someone’s threatening _ them_.”

Bending low, his soft lips brushing the outer shell of Connor’s ear, Hank whispers, “How good of you. Protecting your friends. How _ noble_.” 

When he leans back again, Connor is sweating and trembling, yet still his cock strains against his fly, painfully stiff. 

“You know how to use it?” Hank asks, arching an eyebrow.

Connor nods. “Yes.”

A slow smile touches Hank’s lips. “Show me,” he says. “Take the safety off.” He flips the gun neatly in his hand and extends it, grip-first, toward Connor, who’s momentarily afraid he’ll drop the thing.

Finally, he gets a good hold on it and flicks one of the safety points, glancing up at Hank for approval. 

“That’s one,” he says in a teasing tone. 

It’s intimidating but not surprising that Hank knows this gun and its features. Connor’s hand is shaking so badly now that he has to re-adjust his grip.

Hank hums again and, to Connor’s shock, sinks to his knees with more agility than a man of his size should have. 

“Good,” he croons, then raises the hem of Connor’s shirt and starts scattering kisses over the skin of his belly above his waistband. When he looks up again, his eyes hold an uncharacteristic trust that’s almost _ innocent _.

It’s more unnerving by far than his usual flat gaze. 

“You forgot one,” Hank says quietly.

His breath stuck in his throat, his lungs burning, Connor thumbs the final safety guard on the pistol. The fact that it’s live and so close to both of them makes him feel vaguely nauseated.

Hank, however, smiles and places one hand over Connor’s fly, gripping the hardness through his pants. 

Connor gasps and tries to stay steady on his feet as Hank starts to unbuckle his belt. The Springfield’s cold, steely lines partially block his view of of Hank’s face, but he’s terrified of moving.

Hank’s deft hands have gotten his belt and jeans undone, and now he brushes his lips, the tip of his strong nose, against the damp fabric clinging to Connor’s cock. Then he looks upward again. With total assurance, he raises a hand and uses one finger to guide the barrel of the pistol until it rests lightly against his temple.

His voice strained with near-panic, Connor says, “Hank, what are you—?”

“Shh. Put your finger on the trigger.”

“No,” Connor says. It’s wheedling rather than firm. “I can’t.”

“Put your fucking finger on the trigger, Connor.”

“Hank, _ please_.”

Even from below, on his knees, Hank commands compliance. 

Still woozy, Connor rests the tip of his forefinger as lightly as possible on the trigger. He feels dangerously close to breaking down crying.

Hank leans into the muzzle against his skin with an expression that’s close to ecstasy. “Now, tell me to suck your cock,” he says.

Connor shakes his head. He doesn’t feel capable of speaking.

In response, Hank pulls Connor’s cock free of his briefs and wraps his fingers around it. “I need to be able to trust you completely,” he says. “I have to know you’re not gonna lose it when things get intense.”

Blinking back terrified tears, Connor doesn’t reply. Things are _ already _ intense. _ Far _ too much so. He’s brought back into the moment—into his _ body_—by discomfort. Hank is squeezing him too tightly. In spite of it, though, he feels a stab of arousal as his purple-flushed cock leaks a stream of clear fluid onto Hank’s hand.

“Say it,” Hank says. “Let go of your fear. Let it all go. You’ll feel so good.” His hand clenches so hard that Connor cries out in pain.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, okay, okay.” Relief floods him when Hank lets go, along with a dreadful desire to come. Trying to keep the tears out of his voice, he manages to say, “Go on.” He swallows around the knot in his throat. “Suck my cock.”

“Again.”

“Suck my cock.”

Hank hesitates for another moment, pinning Connor with a sharp look.

Connor sobs. He lifts his finger from the trigger, grateful that Hank can’t see. Then he flicks his wrist, nudging the muzzle of the gun against Hank’s temple. “_Do it_.”

At last, Hank seems satisfied. He hums once more, savoring, then swallows Connor down.

And oh, _ Christ_, it feels good. In contrast to his punishing hand, Hank’s mouth is soft and slick and gives just the right pressure. Broken, grating moans pour from his throat, getting louder as Hank works him just right. 

Spiraling faster and faster, Connor makes sure his forefinger is well away from the trigger, hooked hard around the textured grip. It’s only a moment before he comes, almost doubling over with the force of it. He screams into the empty kitchen.

Hank pulls away, licking his lips and swiping his sleeve across his chin.

Connor is both surprised and unsurprised at the same time that Hank swallowed everything down. He doesn’t realize right away that he’s still holding the pistol. When he catches on at last, he flicks the closest safety catch and drops the gun like it’s red-hot. It clatters to the tile, harmless. 

When Hank steps forward, Connor sways on his feet and falls against his broad chest, panting. Rough fingers stroke his hair.

“You’re learning,” Hank says. “That’s good. The world is a shithole, Connor, and you have to be tough to survive it. You have to be ruthless.” He presses a final kiss to the top of Connor’s head and backs away. Then he leaves without once looking back. 

His pants still around his knees, Connor collapses to the floor, his bones feeling like a pile of sharpened sticks inside his skin. He kicks the Springfield and sends it spinning across the room to knock into the opposite wall, then he buries his face in his hands and weeps.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now featuring pain slut Connor and surprise pain slut Hank + blood. Rough stuff, but once again, all of it is consensual. Connor wants it.

When he wakes in his bed, Connor can’t remember how long he’d lain on his kitchen floor the previous night, appalled at where his choices had brought him. 

As it’s been so many times before, however, the regret is nearly gone by morning, scattered into shreds by the light. Connor is content to let the remnants go. Instead, he tries to hold onto a comforting dream in which he’d been surrounded by blackness. The dark was thick, impenetrable, but not frightening. Dream-Connor found himself relaxing into it as if he were being wrapped in a fur blanket.

By contrast, the golden summer morning seems invasive. He wants to sink back into the welcoming void, soft and dark as... 

(_Hank’s mouth_)

Connor groans and tries to sit up, flinging the sheet aside. He’s naked underneath and furiously hard, a blotch of sticky fluid already pooled on his belly.

“Fuck,” he rasps. His throat feels raw, as if he’d spent the whole night screaming. A tingling flush—part shame and part arousal—creeps up his cheeks and down his chest, growing deeper with every thudding heartbeat. He doesn’t want to want this.

Or, at least, he tries to convince himself of that.

Connor is so hungry for release that the act of curling his fingers around his cock draws a pained whimper. Swatches of dream transform into memories, smell and slickness and weight becoming almost real enough to convince him he’s not alone in the bed, not merely touching himself while one word echoes through his mind. 

For a few more moments, he draws out the torment, unwilling to say the name that’s always on the back of his tongue. 

_ Just a little while longer. _

Connor’s hand is dry as he jerks himself roughly. Then: “_Hank._”

The room goes from gold to white; he doesn’t even realize his eyes are closed. Not that he could see, anyway—in his head is a blind spot the exact size and shape of Hank Anderson.

When his muscles stop quivering and seizing, Connor feels washed out, like an emptied bottle. Come stripes his belly and chest nearly up to his chin. His head falling back limp on the pillow, he gnaws his lip and tries to push away the bone-deep ache to be _ filled_. 

On one hand, he’s never been with anyone as big as Hank, but on the other, if Hank doesn’t fuck him soon he’s going to go crazy. Connor whines and swipes one hand down his torso, smearing the fluid that’s now gone tacky and cool. When he draws the hand back up, he digs his fingernails into his skin, leaving long, dark-red welts behind. Since the night they met, Hank has subjected him to acts that have been frightening, humiliating...and still wildly erotic. Each and every time, Connor has been disgusted at himself for loving it. 

Still, he hasn’t yet been pushed to his limit, hasn’t been _ claimed_. He needs Hank to take complete control—to pin him down, use him, break him in half, bend him over and split him open until his mind shorts out. If Connor can only tip over that edge, it will wipe out all doubt and trepidation. 

He needs to be burned to the ground then molded from the ash...but he can’t do it by himself.

After he showers, Connor sits at his kitchen table with coffee strong enough to make him shake. As he stares at his phone, there’s some dim recognition that he’s hungry, but the task he’s taken on is too important—too _ pivotal_—for distraction. First, he opens his laptop and skims the audio file of the unreleased episode at one-and-a-half time. 

Listening to his account of the conversation with Jamel Allen, even though he doesn’t name him in the recording, Connor feels the prickle of tears in his eyes. Even so, it’s like the meeting in that hospital room took place a million years in the past, or in a dream.

When the segment ends and fades into an ad pitch, Connor sniffs, wipes his eyes, refills his mug. His heartbeat is rapid and stuttering. The second half of the episode starts off strong with the tread and size discrepancy, now burned into his mind after seeing the handful of photos Gavin had sent via text. They were obviously hastily snapped from the files, but the proof was undeniable. Whoever had stomped on Louis Wharton’s neck apparently wore a shoe at least two sizes smaller than the person who’d killed Prutzman, Shambhani, and Grove. 

In his first conversation with Gavin, Connor had floated the idea that it was one person trying to cover his tracks—_literally_—by wearing a bigger shoe. That’s still a possibility, of course, but anyone can skim that technique from an episode of _ CSI_. Connor’s plans involve a little more provocation.

Hopefully, the episode will stir the hornet’s nest enough to draw potential suspects like Kamski out of the woodwork...and prod Hank to take the next step. Whether that means solidifying his complete hold on Connor or casting him aside remains to be seen.

When the pre-recorded portion ends, Connor turns on his mic and lays down an addendum. It lasts no more than five minutes; plenty of time to dangle the bait. He names Kamski as a person of interest in the case, then invites his listeners to speculate on the notion of a copycat, not just a killer switching out shoes to avoid detection. In a _ coup de grâce_, Connor offers up what Hank told him about Mallory Davis’s murder, including the manner of death. 

When he stops the recording, he’s shivering all over. He pours some cereal, splashing almost as much milk onto the counter as he manages to get in the bowl. The mess doesn’t matter; Connor leaves it and begins shoveling huge spoonfuls into his mouth, his blood sugar spiking. When he feels less shaky, he sits back down and tacks his new recording onto the end of the unreleased episode. No time for another listen, as he’s already an hour late for work.

Sighing and shaking the tension from his shoulders, he taps the button that will send the episode live.

_ Let the pieces fall where they may_.

What follows the release of the episode is less relief and more a kind of chilly calm, inside of which no outcome matters more than any other. While it’s a welcome change from constant anxiety, Connor also has to wonder if his empathy is being drained. He’s talked to cops and first responders before, and all of them say they grow a sort of callus on their soul, a shield from the horrors they encounter every day.

But he has to believe that, even then, they still hope for the best. Then again, maybe this numbness is an advantage. He can’t be fulfilled _ or _ disappointed; whatever happens will simply _ be_, and that is all.

He walks up to the library desk and is greeted by Markus, worry scrawled all over his handsome face. “You okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Connor says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I was calling and texting you. Did you lose your phone?”

Suddenly, Connor doesn’t remember having looked at his phone that morning. He pats his hips absently; his wallet and keys are in the front pockets, but the rear pocket that usually holds his phone is empty. More surprising to him is feeling the subtle rise of the Springfield pistol at his waist. He can’t remember having picked the gun up from the kitchen floor, much less strapping it into its holster. “Maybe,” he says.

“You look…” Markus trails off.

“Like what? I look like what?”

Shaking his head, Markus says, “I don’t know. Just...something’s off.”

Connor shrugs, trying to make it look natural. “Rough night, I guess. I’ll go to bed early.” He can tell from Markus’s expression, however, that he’s not convinced.

As the day wears on, it turns out to be a good thing that Connor has forgotten his phone. There’s no way to obsessively check download traffic or comments on the message board. True, he has the option to log in on one of the library computers, but patrons keep him busy enough with various requests that he ends up with little time to spare.

In fact, Connor is so caught up in logging, organizing, and placing books on the cart for re-shelving that he doesn’t notice the man standing at the desk until he raps his pale knuckles on its polished surface. Connor starts, stares, his recall attenuates like an old Hollywood hallway shot, stretching out into the distance. 

When recognition comes, he nearly chokes. Only the broad desktop separates him from Elijah Kamski. With his right hand, he fumbles to ruck up his shirt and touch the firearm at his belt.

Kamski holds up a hand, the palm facing Connor. “There’s no need for that,” he says.

Two men, both comically bulky, step closer to each of Kamski’s shoulders. 

In Connor’s shock, he hadn’t noticed them. 

Their unnatural muscles bulge behind black t-shirts, each spotted with sweat over the breastbone. The coconut-cocktail smell of sun lotion drifts toward Connor. It would be ridiculous if it weren’t menacing. 

He abandons the idea of grabbing for the gun and raises his empty hands instead. “What are you doing here?” he asks Kamski, his voice coming out mangled with fear. 

“Checking things out,” Kamski says. “Isn’t that what you do at a library? Check things out?”

Connor almost expects him to look over his shoulder, to prod his thugs for a cursory laugh at the stupid joke. But his mouth is unsmiling and his gaze is cool. What had not been apparent in any of the pictures Connor saw of the man is just how flat and unsettling that gaze is. He looked as dead-eyed as a piece of taxidermy in a museum diorama, only one that would track your movements in silent judgment.

“You’ve got some interesting theories, Connor Stern,” says Kamski. “Your friend, Manfred, he’s been dogging my steps for months now. Spinning some wild yarns.” He taps the knuckle of his forefinger against the desktop, making Connor flinch.

“But,” he continues, “I don’t think anyone’s ever accused me of being a _ serial killer_.”

“I—we didn’t_ accuse _you,” Connor stammers.

“Right,” Kamski says, almost in a drawl, “because that would be slander. I doubt that any lawyer you could dig up to defend your little podcast would fare too well in court against my legal team. But I don’t think it has to come to that.” 

When Kamski places his hands on the desk and leans in, Connor sees that he’s not overly tall—definitely not above six foot. And he’s wiry, more so than Gavin, even though the tailored suit jacket hides it well. Getting that scrap of perspective allows Connor to take a breath, if only a shallow one.

“I think you should leave,” he says, the sentiment unconvincing.

This time, the two meatheads _ do _ laugh. 

Kamski holds up a hand once again. “You haven’t even heard what I’m offering.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Connor says.

At that, Kamski raises one eyebrow. “You’re ballsy, I’ll give you that. I’m just trying to figure _ one thing out_. Maybe you can help me.”

Connor stands, trying not to quake, unable to muster any more words. 

“See, I’m wondering whether you’re dumb enough to think you can take on my whole empire from your soapbox there, or…” Kamski smiles, and somehow it’s even more chilling than his flat regard. “Or if you’re just a little whipped dog for your big police lieutenant.”

Connor sputters, shocked. “What?”

The smile curls upward even further, drawing Kamski’s lips into a white sickle. “Been keeping tabs on Manfred for a while now. I admit I hadn’t heard of your program until you two released your joint episode. The one in which you admit to trespassing on my property. Imagine my surprise when you not only show up again, but you have the head of the Deviant Killer Task Force in tow. No offense to your friend Markus, but he hasn’t been able to dredge up a single police interview.” 

Kamski leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Of course, I have to assume that—unlike you, Mr. Stern—he’s not fucking one of them.”

Suddenly dizzy, Connor staggers. He almost catches himself on the edge of the desk, but that would put him too close to Kamski’s leering face. Instead, he stumbles back and hits his tailbone hard on the re-shelving cart. A few books slide and topple to the floor.

“Oh, yes, _ Connor_,” Kamski hisses. “My operative managed to get a few choice shots of you—shall we say—_servicing _ the lieutenant. If I were less of a gentleman, I might be tempted to try out that sweet little mouth myself.”

At that, Connor’s fists clench. He swallows back foul bile, hoping he can keep from being sick in front of Kamski and his goons.

With another tap to the desktop (and that’s a sound that Connor believes he’ll hear long into the night), Kamski huffs and leans back. “Don’t worry, I’m not lacking for warm places to stick my cock. But I imagine it would tarnish Lieutenant Anderson’s sterling image if he got caught getting head from a pretty fanboy.” 

“What do you want?” Connor croaks. He feels perilously close to fainting.

“I want to clear my name,” Kamski tells him. “You can help me do that, and keep your sugar daddy out of the tabloids at the same time. Because I’m feeling _ extra _ generous, I’ll even give you an exclusive.”

“W-what do you mean?”

Kamski leans in again, a sleazy grin smeared across his face. “I’m offering a scoop that no one else in this city has. You see, I know who killed Byron McCullers and Dwayne Lovell. It wasn’t your ‘Deviant Killer,’ and it wasn’t me or anyone from my operation.” 

Despite his terror, Connor can’t help but be intrigued by the hook. “Who?”

“Uh-uh,” Kamski says, shaking a finger. “Not here. Not now. Tomorrow night, you come to my estate. _ Alone_. I’ll back up my claim—with evidence. In exchange, you put out a correction for your listeners.”

Connor gulps, the action audible in the hush of the library. “And what else?”

Kamski sniffs. “I’m not going to try anything with you, boy. When you have as much money as I do, there’s more hot ass on offer than you can fuck in a lifetime.”

“Is that why your wife left you?” Connor asks. “Chloe?”

The smile drops from Kamski’s face like a curtain falling. “One of these days, that smart mouth of yours is going to earn you a lot more than a face-fuck from some fat cop.” He takes a breath. “But it won’t be from me. Not if you play along. You come by, hear what I’ve got to say, put out your correction...and I won’t have my lawyers ruin what remains of your pathetic life.”

With that, he reaches into the outer breast pocket of his suit jacket and hands Connor a business card. 

It feels like plastic, but when Connor looks at the thing, the image of a toggle switch appears below the words _ Swipe to Unlock._

_ Jesus...an electronic business card. _

Connor smudges the thing with one sweaty thumb and a few lines of information pop up. 

“Tomorrow night,” Kamski says. “The card is your access key. Don’t be late.” 

“How do I know if I go in your house that I’m going to come out again?” Connor asks. “How can I trust you?”

“My advice? Never trust anyone.”

Leaving that twisted echo of Hank’s warning echoing in Connor’s mind, Kamski turns on his heel and walks toward the door, motioning to the silent beefcake bodyguards to follow.

When the three are out of sight, Connor’s knees give way and he collapses to the carpet. The strange business card bounces out of his grasp, and he at least has the wherewithal to snatch it up again. The type on its tiny, flexible screen appears to quiver, until Connor realizes it’s his hand that’s shaking. 

E.J. Kamski

402 Mascallier Ave.

Bloomfield Hills

1900 h./7:00 PM

“Dude, are you okay?” Markus’s voice is loud and startling. 

Connor gasps, reflexively clutching the card in his closed fist. “Christ,” he says. Then: “Sorry. I’m fine. Just...maybe didn’t have enough breakfast.”

Markus extends his hand, but Connor shakes his head, struggling to his feet using the edge of the desk instead. 

He still clings to the card, unwilling to show even a corner. When he’s able to right himself, he shoves the thing in his jeans pocket. 

Frowning, Markus says, “You should go home.”

“No, no,” Connor tells him at once. Then he allows the powerlessness and fear he feels to crash over his face. “I don’t want to go home.”

“You’re not just sick.” Markus looks frightened now, too.

Shaking his head again, Connor whispers, “It was Kamski. He was here.”

Markus grabs his shoulder, and for once Connor is glad for the physical support. “Are you serious? Just now?” He pauses. “Did he—?”

A nod. “He mentioned you.”

“I meant did he threaten you,” Markus says, “but that’s not good. North?”

“He didn’t say anything about her.” With Markus’s warmth nearby, his presence solid and reassuring, Connor takes a breath. “Do you think I could stay at your place tonight?” he asks.

“Of course,” Markus says, pulling him into a hug that he doesn’t resist. “Always.”

**

By the end of shift, Connor’s anxiety has dissipated only by a little. Markus had gone out of his way during the day to keep him from having to deal with patrons. It was a natural outcropping of Markus’s inherent goodness, and Connor was so grateful he couldn’t resent the selflessness. 

_ God, Markus makes sacrifice seem so easy. _

He keeps a close eye on Connor as they turn off the lights and lock the doors. It’s a bright summer evening, the breeze sweet over long shadows on the concrete, but all of it is underlaid with menace.

“Do you want me to drive?” Markus asks. 

“I’ll follow you,” Connor says. “Rather not leave my car where I know they can find it.”

With a solemn nod, Markus says, “Makes sense.”

While tailing his red Toyota as closely as possible, Connor finds he’s relieved to be heading into one of the city’s ungentrified neighborhoods. He needs to be surrounded by people who spend their time earning a living to get by, rather than sociopathic rich assholes who can drag a cadre of bodyguards into a public library. 

In a much less straightforward way, he’s proud of himself for not calling Hank—not _ running to him_—for protection. Not when there’s relatively little he can do, anyway. It won’t help his work or his mindset to know there are pictures of a tryst between them. The knowledge is a burden, but it’s one Connor can decide to bear without Hank even having to know. Still, good God, he wishes he didn’t have to face Kamski alone. 

In his car, Markus makes a quick left onto a nearly hidden side street, jostling Connor from his turbulent thoughts. He manages to follow, driving onto a strip of new asphalt. It feels springy under his tires and the scent of tar drifts in through the air conditioning vents. Connor smiles. That hot tar smell always reminds him of childhood summers. He puts the driver’s side window down. To make things even better, someone is tending a barbecue somewhere, and the scent of grilling meat mingles in. 

He’s tempted to stop the car and close his eyes, drink this in, listen to the sounds of a summer evening: shrieking kids chasing each other with water guns, their parents talking work and sports, a few early crickets. 

Gravel crunches under his tires as he pulls in behind Markus’s Toyota at the back of a two-story brick building. 

When Markus gets out of the car, he’s smiling, too. “Been a while since you’ve been here, huh?”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “I forget how nice it is.” He’d also forgotten the vintage mural painted on the side of the building Markus lives in. Its browns, blues, yellows, and oranges are faded now, but he can still make out the main figure: a laughing man with a newsboy cap perched atop his Afro. The man in the mural (Markus told him at some point it was painted in the early seventies and semi-restored a few years ago) sits on a milk crate holding a guitar, from which painted musical notes float up and across the bricks. 

Even though the paint is worn, the artistry is still apparent. The multiple shades of the man’s skin, the lines beside his mouth and across his knuckles—all expertly rendered. 

“The neighborhood association is doing great work,” Markus says. “They’ve gotten the worst streets fixed, and we’ve got two parks now. One of them has a duck pond.”

Connor grins. “I remember going to the park to give stale bread to the ducks when I was a kid.”

“Well,” Markus says, “there are little dispensers with seeds now. Apparently you’re not supposed to give bread to birds.”

As they round the corner to the front of the building, Connor sees a man standing under the green-and-white striped awning. It wouldn’t be strange in this area, except that the guy is white. 

Obviously, Markus senses something off, too. He slows and holds up a hand to stop Connor from going ahead. “Hey, man,” Markus calls to the guy. “Help you?”

The white man, his dark eyes rimmed with red, looks up. He stares for a long while, then says, “Nah.” 

Connor exhales when he peels his back off the wall and turns to walk in the opposite direction, but then the man’s arm moves and he whirls back around. The blade of the knife he holds toward them gleams in the evening light. 

“Shit,” Connor hisses.

“Gimme your wallets, mothefuckers!” the guy orders, shrill. There’s no one else on the street.

Markus has both hands raised. “Okay, man. Okay. I’m just going to reach for it. Real slow. It’s in my back pocket.”

Connor stands frozen until the point that Markus has his beat-up wallet out and ready to hand over to the guy. Then he dips his hand under his shirt, flips the catch on the holster, and—somehow, miraculously—draws out the Springfield without fumbling. He points it at the man. “You’re not taking anything,” he says.

“Whoa, shit, dude,” the guy says softly. He raises both his hands.

“Drop the knife,” Connor orders.

“I ain’t gonna take anything.”

“Connor…” This from Markus, who has stepped aside, the hand holding his wallet still half-extended.

“I said, drop the knife on the ground and run.” As emphasis, Connor chambers a round, the click loud on the silent street. 

The guy’s eyes go wide and he lets go of the knife, which clatters to the ground, its blade flashing. “Okay, man, okay! Don’t shoot me.”

“Run,” Connor says. “Go on, asshole.”

This time, the guy obeys. As he legs it down the street, Connor scurries over to pick up the knife. He winces at the greasy feeling of its grip, his heart hammering loud in his ears.

When he turns back, Markus looks horrified, his face ashen. 

Connor shakes his head, letting his gun arm relax. “What the hell was that?”

“Yeah, _ Connor _ ,” Markus says, his voice steely and brittle. “What the hell _ was _ that?”

For a moment, he’s confused. “What—well, I don’t know that guy! He just tried to rob us, dude.”

“When did you get that?” Markus asks, making a sour face and gesturing toward the pistol.

Squinting, Connor tries to wrap words around his puzzled indignation. “What does it matter? Someone’s been tracking me, threatening me! Fucking...Elijah Kamski came into the library today! Can’t I protect myself?”

“You don’t need a gun.” Markus’s voice is flat, unreadable.

Aghast, Connor huffs. “We just needed it! What would you have done if I hadn’t had it?”

“Handed over my wallet,” Markus says. “Everything in it can be replaced.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to play it that way.”

“Seems like it.”

“I don’t understand you, Markus. I just saved our asses.”

Markus scoffs. “Typical.”

“What?” Connor asks, furious and frustrated. “What’s that mean?”

Shaking his head, Markus says, “It looks like you don’t need any protection from me. Looks like you’ve got that handled. I don’t want you here tonight, Connor. Not with that.” He gestures to the gun again. “Go home.”

“Are you—?” Connor stops. “You know what? Fine. If you’re going to freak out at me just because I’m choosing to do things a little differently, I don’t want to be around you, either.”

Markus shakes his head again, silent, and walks toward the door. He doesn’t look back. 

Enraged, Connor stalks to his car, struggling to jam the gun back into its holster with shaking hands. He doesn’t have his phone, so he has to navigate by his spotty memory of the area, making several wrong turns. The events of the evening—Markus’s haughty dismissal—it all churns inside his head as he pulls onto the deserted street in front of his apartment building and enters the back lot. 

His fingers tremble, making it hard to get the key into the deadbolt on his door. He accidentally locks it and has to unlock it again, thinking absently that he must only have flipped the lock on the doorknob that morning. That can’t happen again. 

Inside his cool and coffee-scented entryway, he tosses his keys onto the side table and thumps into the kitchen. He braces his hands against the counter near the sink, trying to catch his breath. 

There’s a whisper of sound from the dimness at his back, making him whirl around. Connor sees a flash of silver hair, a hulking shape.

“Hank!” His exclamation is high-pitched, humiliating. “What—how did you get in here?”

Hank steps out of the angular shadow in the corner of the kitchen, a strange half-smile on his face. “Used to pick locks as a kid. Turns out it _ is _ like riding a bike. You never really forget.”

Connor wants to ask him why he’s there, but he knows...he knows.

“Heard the new episode,” says Hank, a confirmation. “Interesting angle you got there. Did you know, Connor: people can be prosecuted for airing unreleased information related to an ongoing investigation?”

Chilly dread sinks into Connor’s bones.

“Kind of thing that can get a cop booted from the force,” Hank continues. He adds: “With prejudice.”

Adrenaline is coursing through Connor’s body, his muscles tensed to run. Or to fall. He doesn’t want to look weak here, in front of Hank, where it matters. Digging his fingernails into the meat of his palms, he stands silent for the moment.

Unexpectedly, Hank’s expression softens. He looks Connor over, inspecting his face. Looking for...who knows? 

It’s all Connor can do not to flinch when he runs the back of one thick finger along his cheekbone.

“Sweet boy,” Hank says. He seizes one of Connor’s hands, insistent, forcing his fingers apart with pressure on the palm. 

The air lodged in Connor’s lungs begins to burn.

One by one, Hank kisses his fingertips, his grip around his wrist still too tight for comfort. “Have you been bad?” he asks.

“Hank,” Connor finally manages, barely a hiss of breath. He truly wonders if Hank can smell gunpowder on his hand, even though he never fired the gun.

“Or have you been good?” Hank asks, his smile a terrifying slice across his face. At once, he lets Connor’s hand drop.

Blood flow returns to his fingers in crazy jags. There’s no time for relief, though, because just as quickly, Hank’s enormous hand is curled around his throat, pressing hard enough to serve as a warning. 

He steps in close, smelling of aftershave, dust, man. “I’m not angry that you put out what I told you about Mallory Davis,” he says, whispering close to Connor’s right ear. “Really, I’m not. Even though it _ was _ in confidence. And to be honest, I don’t care that you have another source in the department. Leaks are bound to happen with a case as big as this.”

The fingers around Connor’s neck tighten slightly. He can’t tell if the gray fog at the edges of his vision is a product of panic or the hand pressing on his windpipe. For a frenzied second, he considers trying to pull the Springfield from his jeans once again.

Hank’s lips are close to his own; he can feel breath against them.

“I only want to know one thing,” Hank says. “Your source...are you giving to him what you’re giving to me?”

The perverse relief Connor feels is like a starburst in his head. “No!” he croaks. “Never.” A shower of sparks rains down his nerves; his fingers feel hot as fuses. 

Abruptly, Hank lets go of his throat. He would stumble back, but now fingers are knotting tight in his hair, drawing stinging tears to his eyes. 

“Good,” Hank drawls, low and steely. “Because you’re mine.” 

When he leans in for a brutal kiss, hauling Connor forward, Connor bites his lip—_hard_.

With a grunt of shock, Hank lets go and backs away a step. His expression shifts from confusion to fury as he touches his mouth, coming away with bloody fingertips. Then, he huffs a soft laugh and licks his lip, his eyes showing what might be admiration as he glances up.

Then a blur of motion and Connor’s head snaps sideways, a dull and cloudy ringing blooming in his left ear and a ferocious sting rising on his cheek. He clutches his face, dumbfounded. The prickle of blood rising to the skin’s surface rolls over his body in waves.

Hank is right next to him again, crowding him, unyielding fingers in his hair. “Get one scrap from the table and you start thinking you’re alpha dog, huh?” he hisses. Then, his voice goes almost tender. “Do you need a reminder of who you belong to, love?”

Connor burns, sizzles and twists like kindling. He’s desperate to hate it, to shove it all away and fold in on himself, reject the boiling need that sears his belly and sets his flesh alight. But he can’t. 

“Yes,” he says.

At the same time that Hank’s fingers loosen in his hair, he feels his eyelids flutter, his focus draining away. Soft kisses trail over the ridge of his injured cheek.

“You liked it,” Hank says. There’s no query in his tone; there never has been. Since their first meeting, he’s dug into Connor’s deepest, most shameful fantasies and brought them out like jewels for display. 

“Yes,” Connor repeats. He lets his eyes fall closed. “Hit me again.”

Hank kisses his lips so softly he might have imagined it. Then he steps back again Through the space between them comes a savage backhand to the opposite cheek. 

Connor stumbles, but doesn’t go down. A fissure opens on the inside of his mouth, leaking blood over his tongue. Before a second passes, Hank is cradling his chin, kissing the place he’d just struck.

“Again,” Connor says, his plea infused with syrupy desire.

“No,” Hank tells him. “Not now.”

He opens his eyes. 

Hank’s eyes are storm-dark, the pupils wide and black. 

“Then fuck me,” says Connor.

Drawing him close with a possessive hand at the small of his back and scattering kisses along his neck, Hank says, “Oh, yes, baby boy. I’ll fuck you. Gonna spread you open and fill you up, split that sweet little ass on my cock. I want you begging to come. Only for me. Only _ ever _ for me.”

Connor’s senses seem sharpened to the point of intrusion at the same time that he feels pliant and drugged. “Yes, Hank. Only for you.”

Hank wraps him in sheltering, stifling arms, crushing him against his broad chest. The dark scent of arousal rises even through his clothing. As he trails open-mouthed kisses down Connor’s neck to the join of his shoulder, his big hands wander down to his waist, over the swell of his ass, to grip behind his thighs. 

He lifts, and Connor rises, wrapping his long legs around Hank’s waist. It seems to cost the man no effort at all. 

Hank sets him gently on the edge of the kitchen table. He runs a callused thumb over Connor’s kiss-swollen lips. “Take off your clothes,” he says. “All of them.”

Disoriented from the blows to his face and increasingly dizzy with want, Connor nods. He fumbles at the buttons on his cuffs for a second or two, then—seeing the dark urgency in Hank’s eyes—tugs at them until they pop. He doesn’t bother trying with the buttons down the front; they fly off and scatter like shrapnel over the floor as he rips the shirt open. A moment afterward, it goes onto the floor, and his undershirt a moment after that. 

Hank, who’d crouched to unlace Connor’s shoes, now lets them fall and stands again, moving between Connor’s spread thighs to get his warm hands all over the expanse of his skin. 

The rough patches on his palms scrape deliciously over Connor’s chest. 

Connor yelps and squirms when Hank pinches one nipple hard with his knuckles, feeling his cock leak behind the fly of his jeans. They’re too constraining by half...and _ Jesus is he hard already? _

He plucks at Hank’s shirt. “You, too. _ Please_.” 

“Soon,” Hank tells him. He inclines his chin toward the gun belt still looped around Connor’s waist. “Get rid of that.”

Although he relishes the uptick in danger, Connor is glad Hank doesn’t want the gun involved this time. He doesn’t want to be forced to take control...at least not this time. He needs to give himself over entirely.

As soon as the gun and holster thump to the floor, Hank’s thick fingers are tugging at the button on Connor’s jeans. It gives easily under such uncompromising pressure, as does everything when confronted with the force of nature that is Hank. Spellbound, Connor lifts his hips and lets his jeans and boxer briefs be tugged roughly down and away. Now he’s completely bare in the still kitchen, the wooden tabletop cool against his skin. 

“Already hard for me,” Hank purrs. He skims one hand up the length of Connor’s cock, pressure at the head causing clear fluid to crest and slide down over his knuckles. “You truly can’t help yourself, can you?”

Chewing his lip, Connor shakes his head. 

“I know,” Hank says. “But you’re not going to come tonight until I give you permission. Are you?”

Connor isn’t sure he can do that. He whines and curls his fingers against the tabletop, stalling for time.

Hank reaches out, quick as a striking snake, and seizes his face, his fingertips and thumb pressing hard against Connor’s teeth. “Say it,” he mutters, mixing enticement with threat. “Let go. You’ve given me your body, Connor. Put your mind under my control. When you’re able to give in right away to my every command, your power will be limitless. Let go.”

The split on the inside of Connor’s cheek from the backhand opens up again, leaking sour blood onto his tongue. For a moment, he wants to cough, to struggle. Then he lets his mouth go slack and his eyes close, allowing the wild, coppery taste to course down his throat. 

Hank lets go at once, leaning in to press their lips together, to lick the taste of Connor’s surrender from his mouth. “Good,” he croons. “So good for me.”

He steps back slightly, taking hold of one of Connor’s slender ankles and hoisting it onto his shoulder. 

Connor feels so languid, so nearly outside his body, that he leans back onto his elbows and lets his head fall back. After a moment, he raises it to see Hank squeezing a ribbon of some vaguely glimmering substance from a packet onto his fingers. 

_ Lube. He’d planned this all along. _

Cock twitching against his belly, Connor whimpers softly as Hank rubs the slickness along his first two fingers. 

With one strong hand bracing Connor’s thigh, pressing his belly against it to coax him to lean back, he dips the fingers below Connor’s balls, cool in his warm cleft. He strokes only for a moment, then begins to push in—both fingers at once. 

They’re thick, but the stretch is sweet and welcome. Connor doesn’t even have to tell himself to give in; his body simply accepts, the sharp bite of his tailbone against the hard table barely noticeable in the haze of mounting pleasure.

With a satisfied smile gracing his full lips, Hank pushes in all the way, then crooks the fingers upward, making Connor cry out. 

The need inside him is smoldering, but he’s not yet on the edge. Hank was right. 

Hank is always right—he only has to give in. 

“You ready to take me?” Hank growls, at the same time drawing the fingers nearly out and then sliding them in again until Connor feels knuckles pressing into his flesh.

Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, but he feels no regret. It’s only this deep connection...or the promise of one. The promise of _ more_. “Yes, Hank, yes. _ Please_.”

Hank strokes his cheek, where the sting has transformed to a dull ache, throbbing with his heartbeat. “You’re beautiful when you beg, sweetheart.”

Connor nearly sobs when the fingers slide free, leaving him empty and wanting. 

After just a moment’s hesitation, Hank sets about unbuttoning his cuffs with slippery fingers, then moves onto the shirt buttons. His movements are efficient but not hurried, and Connor understands he’s expected to wait.

Even though he’s burning, burning…

Hank tosses the shirt aside, then pulls off the sleeveless undershirt he wears below it.

To Connor’s shock, amid the moderately thick hair on Hank’s chest, a tattoo is inked on the pale skin. The stylized image of a ram’s head with an arrow in its mouth begins a few inches below the hollow of his throat and ends almost at the bottom of his sternum. Above it, a banner stretches halfway across his broad chest. On the banner, four words are printed:

_ fiat justitia ruat cælum _

Connor knows they’re in Latin, but he has no idea what the phrase means—or if it’s a phrase at all. He reaches out to touch it, but Hank seizes his wrist and brings his hand to his mouth to kiss the palm.

Then, he places Connor’s hand over his heart. The arrow in the ram’s mouth is almost positioned so it seems to pierce the organ thumping behind his ribcage. 

Awed, stunned into silence, Connor looks up to meet Hank’s eyes and nods. 

Satisfied in whatever tacit agreement or pact they’d just made, Hank guides Connor’s hand down to his waistband. 

With reverence, even though he aches, Connor unbuckles his belt, slips the button free and unzips his fly. Wary, he waits for a signal before reaching into the warm dampness to grasp Hank’s straining cock. 

“Go on,” Hank says softly. 

A bolt of pure desire races down Connor’s spine, radiating outward until it reaches his fingers and spirals into his belly. Wrapping cool fingers around that familiar thickness, he remembers the way Hank’s cock feels in his mouth, and balances the growing urgency to have it inside him with the serene control granted by his total submission.

His eyes heavy-lidded, Hank tugs his pants and briefs over the curve of his ass and down his thighs.

Seeing his powerful body now almost completely bare, Connor’s mouth waters; he’s so hard it’s almost painful.

Hank retrieves the little pack of lube from the tabletop and drizzles what remains over his flushed cock. It slides between Connor’s fingers, and he catches it, slicking that impossible length. “I want to feel you,” he whispers. “_All _ of you.”

Silent, with strong hands, Hank steps in and draws Connor to the edge of the table, letting him wrap his legs loosely around his waist. 

Obliging, Connor tilts his hips back. He has to wait only a moment before the blunt head of Hank’s cock is prodding at him, seeking entrance.

_ Let go_.

There’s pressure, and the fizz of his nerves coming alive, but there is no pain as Hank begins to enter. The cool, placid lake in his mind is a sharp contrast to the furious heat in his body, but it’s exactly what he needs, this perfect balance. It almost seems, in fact, that he’s watching himself and Hank from above: seeing his head fall back, his throat bared, as Hank pushes in and gathers him close. 

It’s only when Hank’s hips contact his skin that he plummets back into his body, instantly drunk on the sensation of _ fullness_. His cock twitches, aching for touch. 

“Oh, _ Hank, _” he breathes. 

“You’re a perfect fit, baby boy,” Hank says. “I knew you would be.” 

Unless Connor imagines it, his voice quivers slightly. 

“Hold tight to me,” says Hank, tipping his hips up and making Connor gasp. “Gonna fuck you so sweet.” His thrusts are long, slow, and even as he cradles the back of Connor’s head with one hand, the other firm against the small of his back. 

It feels better than anything Connor has experienced—with Markus or any other lover. Hank’s size and build belie the utter precision of his movements; no energy or motion is wasted. He slides smoothly in and out in clockwork time, the stretch and glide and friction all flawless.

The heady smell of sex and sweat drifts up between them. Connor leans forward slightly to place his lips against Hank’s shoulder, then flicks his tongue out to taste the salt on his skin. 

“Go on,” Hank breathes, the rush of air harsh in Connor’s ear. “Mark me.”

He doesn’t hesitate, latching on with his teeth to the meat of Hank’s shoulder and biting down hard. He ignores the agonized growl in his ear, concentrating on the increasing speed and power of Hank’s thrusts. When his incisor breaks the dermal layer, sending a trickle of metallic-tasting warmth onto his tongue, he pulls away. In the indentations left behind, more blood wells, crests, and slides along Hank’s collarbone.

His blood tastes different from Connor’s own: richer, almost sweet.

Hank’s eyes are closed, his cheeks flushed. His fingertips will leave pinpoint bruises where they grip Connor’s hips. “Fuck,” he hisses. 

When he opens his eyes, his irises are black with only the thinnest possible corona of silver-blue. “Are you ready to come for me?” he asks. The thin ribbon of blood meandering over the ridge of his left pectoral now bisects the tattooed banner.

_ fiat justitia ruat cælum _

Hank wraps one hand tightly around Connor’s throat and the other around his cock. “Do it,” he growls, his fingers tightening.

Fireworks in pure white burst behind Connor’s eyes at the same time hot fluid splashes onto his belly. His blood thunders in his ears. If he’s wailing with the pleasure of it—or if he can’t make a sound—there’s no way to know.

Panting, Hank releases his neck, sliding his thick hand down his chest and come-spattered belly to clutch his thigh. His pupils have shrunk to pinpoints and his eyes nearly glow. With one finger, he swabs some of the bright blood from his chest and reaches out to paint Connor’s trembling lips with a single stripe. 

When Connor raises his own hand and smears the blood down his chin and neck, Hank grips his thighs and comes, hard and deep inside him. As his shuddering subsides, he draws Connor close, clutching him tight. Both of them are filthy with sweat and come and blood, breathless and spent.

“You’re free,” Hank rasps. “You can do anything now, Connor. Anything. No one can stop you.”

For the first time, Connor doesn’t question or reject the words. He absorbs...and he believes.


	8. Chapter 8

At some point last night, while Connor was still dazed and reeling, Hank had moved them to the bedroom. Vaguely, Connor remembers being cradled and hoisted in a close embrace, the slow rocking of Hank’s gait like a boat docked on placid seas. He felt the welcoming mattress dip under his limp body, and then nothing else.

In the morning, he wakes up to a flood of sunlight, still wrapped in strong arms. Hank breathes steadily at his back, but Connor knows he isn’t asleep. Even so, he tests that observation, pressing his hips back and arching into the solid warmth of Hank’s body. It earns a low, pleased hum in his ear.

Hank splays one big hand over Connor’s belly and hauls him closer so he can feel the first interested stirrings at his groin. The other hand he slides over Connor’s chest, stopping when he finds a nipple, then pinching it firmly until Connor squeaks. 

“Hank…”

“Right here, sweetheart.”

Connor feels the rumble of those words in Hank’s chest, his beard tickling the back of his neck. During the seemingly endless minutes that it takes for Hank to become fully hard, he skims his rough palms over Connor’s skin, raising shivery gooseflesh although the bedroom is warm. 

When he throws aside the blanket, Connor hauls air into his lungs as if his face had been covered. Hank is touching him everywhere—everywhere but his cock, which has long since risen to hardness and now throbs, leaking onto the sheet. Digging his fingertips into the mattress, Connor whimpers, “Need you again. Please.”

“Of course, baby,” Hank purrs. “Turn over.” He guides Connor until he’s lying on his stomach, his cock trapped between the sheet and his quivering belly. 

When he thrusts shallowly against the warm cotton, looking for friction, Hank chuckles and pats his ass.

Through the haze of his desire, Connor turns his head and sees his own bottle of lube sitting atop the bedside table. He knows he didn’t leave it out, which means Hank must have gone searching, either last night or this morning. 

A thick-fingered hand scoops it up and Connor closes his eyes, anticipating both pleasure and the agony of having to wait for release. The sound of a plastic cap snapping once, then twice, a blunt, slick prodding between his cheeks. As Hank begins to slide in—stretching and opening him up, waking every nerve all over again and making them all sing with urgent need—Connor wails into the pillow and twists the pillowcase in his fingers. He’s no less transported than he’d been the previous night. Each of his senses is full of Hank, just Hank. 

When he’s completely sheathed, Hank settles his weight over Connor’s back, pressing the air from his lungs. Then he rises on his elbows and begins to thrust, slow and long. His deep breaths flutter the hair at Connor’s nape, making them prickle and rise. 

And—_oh_—Connor rises, too: he pushes his hips up, struggling to keep contact, to keep as much of Hank’s thick length inside him as he can.

Hank senses it and indulges him, curling impossibly strong arms underneath Connor’s, clutching his shoulders with broad hands. He stays buried deep for a few minutes, hardly moving. 

But the flex of his thigh muscles and the slight tilt of his pelvis—up and down again—is enough to drive Connor mad. He whines and spreads his legs further, digging his knees into the mattress and shoving up toward that divine, glorious fullness.

“I know,” Hank whispers, then kisses the outer edge of his ear. “I know.” For a little while, he braces his hands on Connor’s waist and keeps his hips pinned while he lengthens his thrusts again, tutting at Connor for his clutching and squirming. Then: “Up. On your knees for me, darling.”

Scrambling, Connor obeys, lurching to his knees with Hank still inside. For his patience, he’s rewarded with bruising fingertips at the top of his thighs as Hank sets up a furious pace, slamming into him and and nearly rattling his jaw.

He’s panting, clutching Connor’s hips, breathing encouragement through clenched teeth: “That’s it, baby boy. That’s right. Take it. You feel so fucking good, so tight for me.”

Whimpering in the face of nearly overwhelming pleasure, Connor braces his hands beside his shoulders and fights to raise his head. 

Hank’s firm hand on his back stops him.

_ Let go_, Connor thinks, allowing his cheek to sink back onto the mattress. His forearms and upper chest descend and rest there, pressing his back into a deep curve. When Hank thrusts again, the angle is perfect, and Connor nearly shouts at the flash of pleasure.

“I don’t even need to touch you,” Hank says, crooning, his voice even and low. “Your body is so perfectly trained for me, Connor. I could keep you on edge like this for hours, or say one word and make you come harder than you ever have. Yes?”

Connor moans, shoving his hips backward. “Yes!”

At that, Hank strokes his hip. “But I won’t.” His thrusts slow and he bends to wrap his arms around Connor’s chest, then guides them both down to the mattress, lying nested beside one another, his cock still buried deep—rigid and full. 

Before Connor has the chance to question it, Hank rolls over onto his back, hauling Connor with him. After a second of flailing, he finds himself upright, straddling Hank’s hips, facing the blankness of his bedroom wall. 

“Give me your hands,” Hank whispers.

Connor obeys, putting his arms behind his back. 

Hank holds his wrists—but loosely. It speaks of trust. 

The brief stroke of one fingertip in the small of his back is both instruction and permission. Letting his head fall back, Connor begins to move in a steady rhythm, rising and sinking again, taking the full length and thickness of Hank’s cock. 

“When you’re ready,” Hank says. His voice is choked, hovering on the edge of pleasure. 

Connor smiles toward the wall, unseen by Hank, and grinds down against him, drawing a sharp groan. He picks up the pace slightly, rolling his hips now, clenching tight around that insistent thickness. 

“Ah...right there. Just like that,” he hears Hank say. “Oh, God—fuck!” With one long sigh that seems to empty his lungs of all breath, Hank comes, his fingers fluttering arrhythmic nonsense as he holds Connor’s wrists.

Before Hank breathes in, Connor lets his body tip and tumble over the edge. He comes, striping the rumpled sheet between Hank’s thighs. He braces his hands on those thighs when Hank lets him go.

Together, they just breathe for a while as Hank slowly goes soft. When his limp cock slips free at last, he draws Connor down into the circle of his arms again, pulling him against a broad chest now sprinkled with cooling sweat. 

With his chin on Connor’s shoulder, Hank smoothes a hand down his body and dips one finger into his cleft once again, sliding the fingertip through the slickness that leaks from Connor’s body. 

Sighing, responding right away, Connor pushes back against the teasing touch. 

But Hank’s intent is not to arouse him again. He only massages softly and kisses the edge of Connor’s ear, then whispers: “Keep my come inside you. I want you to imagine me filling you up again tonight.”

“Just imagine it?” Connor asks, trying to turn his head and look at Hank.

“Maybe,” Hank says. “Maybe not.” 

Connor tries to press him further, but he only gives him a brief kiss then rolls away, leaving the bed and the room. It’s chilly without Hank’s unbelievable warmth at his back, and Connor pulls the sheet up and over his shoulders. After a moment, he hears the shower running.

There is another part of Hank that is forever closed off, and for the first time, Connor is uncomfortable with that fact.

**

He turns down coffee, leaving Connor standing barefoot with a full pot brewing. Watching Hank stride out to his shit-heap car—his damp hair pulled back with a plain rubber band—makes him ache with want all over again. But where before he’d felt slight and papery in Hank’s absence, almost as though the substantial part of him had been peeled away, he recognizes now that the feeling has changed. It isn’t that the sense of being somehow _ thinned out _ has gone. Rather, Connor feels honed—a stiletto blade, or a new, green branch that can almost be bent double before snapping up with a rebound sharp enough to split flesh.

He’ll do what Hank asked him to; after all, it feels like keeping a piece of him inside. It’s a reminder—not of Hank’s strength, but of his own potential. In the shower, Connor soaps himself gently, as if the electric tingle of Hank’s touch could be washed away if he scrubs too hard. It’s in his skin because it’s in his mind now. 

Before leaving, he puts the Latin phrase from Hank’s tattoo into Google. _ Fiat justitia ruat cælum_. It means “Let justice be done though the heavens fall.” 

Sounds like something a cop might latch onto, or at least one who’s more than your average uneducated grunt. Gavin Reed, though he seems to have good instincts and be quick on the uptake, definitely doesn’t strike Connor as intellectual enough to have Latin inked on his skin. Or maybe, even though Markus has so far stopped short of saying it outright, Connor is just a privileged college boy who doesn’t know jack shit about the real world.

The idea still grates somewhere in the back of his mind. But as the city turns like the proverbial worm, revealing more and more of its underbelly, it seems less likely that he’s merely clueless. Hank, more than the podcast or the DK case, has been his passport to secondhand knowledge of true depravity. Now, Connor is about to meet on his own turf a man who could very well have killed North and Markus’s reporter friend—at the very least.

With two cups of strong coffee down, and a third in a travel mug, he puts the address on the electronic business card into his maps app. It leads him up, up: along Route 1 and beyond the city limits. Moving into Bloomfield Hills, the houses grow until they’re impossibly huge and set far back from the road, some of them hidden behind gates or thick stands of trees.

What surrounds Elijah Kamski’s estate is a slick concrete wall painted white, over the top of which bamboo thickets bristle. The gate looks like solid brass. 

His heart hammering against his rib cage, Connor guides his car onto the gravel drive. The crunch is unpleasantly reminiscent of the lot behind Markus’s apartment. An intercom console is mounted on a bronze stanchion. After a moment’s hesitation, Connor presses the button. 

No one answers, but a low buzz sounds and the gate begins to slide open, revealing a close-cropped lawn planted with stands of dwarf Japanese maple trees and studded with artful arrangements of boulders. The driveway itself is overlaid with wood, stained brilliant red like a Zen garden bridge. Connor indulges in a brief roll of his eyes. 

_ How pretentious_.

It does help to dispel the anxiety a little.

Right before he reaches the main house—an angular, modern thing that’s much more tasteful than the sprawling lawn—he pops the glove compartment and touches the cool steel of the Springfield. Bringing it inside would be suicidal, but Connor needs at least the illusion that he can reach it if needed. 

As for the rest of the courage he requires, last night’s rebirth by pain and pleasure will provide it. 

No valet or guard stands outside the front door, and the person who answers it is a petite, dark-haired woman rather than one of Kamski’s thick-necked toughs.

“Connor Stern?” the woman asks.

Connor nods.

“Mister Kamski’s expecting you.”

If Connor had thought Kamski would somehow seem less slimy in the tasteful surroundings of his own house, he finds he is wrong.

The developer greets him in a living room that looks out on a terrace made of the same red-stained boards as the drive. He’s barefoot, wearing a black silk bathrobe that falls above his knees. Every visible inch of skin is milk-pale; only his teeth are whiter. 

Connor fights back a surge of revulsion.

His smile widening, Kamski raises a crystal tumbler half-full of some kind of alcohol and shakes it in Connor’s direction. The single ice cube clinks gently in its pool of swirling liquor.

“Please, come in,” he says. “Sit down.” To the woman at Connor’s shoulder he says: “Aurelia, you can leave us.”

She nods and is gone, her footsteps almost silent.

“Your wife?” Connor asks.

Kamski sniffs. “Hardly. After my first...misadventure...with Chloe, I realized I’m not the marrying kind.” He pauses to sip from his glass. Then: “She does give _ amazing _ head, though.”

Connor grimaces, resisting the temptation to look behind him and check if the woman had heard.

In response, Kamski gives a derisive laugh. “Those who live in glass houses, Connor.” He walks over to a small side table and picks up a slim device, which he points at a screen in the corner of the room Connor hadn’t even noticed. 

The video that pops up has no sound, but its picture is painfully clear. Apparently shot with a camera using some sort of long-distance lens, the vantage point is through the passenger-side window of Hank’s hideous car. 

Connor wants very much to look away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches his own image onscreen: talking to Hank, then leaning over the center console. The footage goes shaky for a moment—the person behind the camera shifting position—then it refocuses and zooms. Connor clenches his teeth seeing his own eager hands on Hank’s fly, his dark head almost disappearing below the dash, bobbing up and down as he works.

Kamski pauses the video with a smug look. 

“All right,” Connor tells him. “You proved your point. What do you want?”

“I told you before: I only want to clear my name. And I’m giving you information in exchange. You’ll need to do some digging, but I assure you all of it is verifiable. I’m sure you can be _ very _ persuasive.” 

“If you think I sleep with anyone and everyone to get a scoop, maybe you’re projecting. I’m an investigative reporter, not a whore.”

His expression going hard, Kamski saunters up to Connor and stabs one knobby finger at his chest. He isn’t physically intimidating; the fear lies in who might be watching and waiting.

“You should give more credit to whores,” says Kamski. “Their motives are more honest than ours, at the very least.”

Once upon a time, Connor might have argued the purity of his motives. Now, he says, “Give me what you brought me here for so I can go.”

Kamski shakes his head, but it only signals disapproval or chiding. He still seems eager to talk. “Your ‘Deviant Killer’ isn’t responsible for the death of Byron McCullers or Dwayne Lovell.”

“Okay,” Connor says. “Who is?”

“A former cop with a score to settle.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

Kamski’s bloodless lips curl into a half-smile. “His name was Ben Williams. Disgraced and booted from the force for taking bribes. He was working for a bargain-basement security firm that was, let’s say, less than scrupulous about background checks. It figures that a slumlord like McCullers would opt for such an outfit.”

Connor frowns. “He wanted security for his building?”

A sharp laugh from Kamski. “God, no. He wanted protection _ from _ his building. A bodyguard in case some disgruntled resident decided to play vigilante.”

So far Kamski’s story makes a kind of sense. However, with no real knowledge to base it on, Connor decides not to believe or disbelieve until he can ferret out some more answers. “So Williams ‘went vigilante’ instead?”

“No idea.” Kamski shrugs. “Perhaps he was paid off.” He flicks a quick glance up at Connor’s face, and appears to see a question reflected there, because he adds: “It wasn’t _ me _ who paid Williams, if that’s what you’re thinking. I hadn’t even planned to acquire the property. It was already condemned by the city and the residents given notice to vacate when I bought it. Anyone who took it on would have had to tear it down.”

“How do you know Williams killed McCullers?” Connor asks. 

“I learned that from a cop who was still on the force.”

“Why not go to the Chief of Police? Another cop?” asks Connor, firing off questions one after another. “Why wait until Williams killed Lovell, too?”

“I didn’t,” Kamski tells him. “I only found out after Lovell’s death.”

“What did Williams have against Dwayne Lovell?” 

Sneering, Kamski says, “You know Lovell’s record. The man was a serial rapist.”

“Never convicted,” says Connor. 

“So you believe he was innocent?” Kamski asks him.

After a pause, Connor says, “No.”

“Well,” Kamski says, then stops to drain the rest of the liquor in his glass. “I suppose Ben Williams _ did _ go vigilante, after a fashion.”

“If he did, how do you know he didn’t kill the other four?”

“Because Ben Williams is dead. He has been for two years.”

Connor’s jaw aches with tension. “How do you _ know_? Who told you?”

“Ah,” says Kamski, savoring the moment. “That would be the same Detroit police officer who clued me in to Williams’_side hustle _ as a revenge killer. The same officer—_detective_, I should say—who shot Ben Williams and buried him under three feet of concrete in the old assembly plant. He’s someone I believe you know. Rather well, if I’m not mistaken.”

His breath catching in his throat, Connor stands frozen for a second or two, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck prickling painfully. “Hank Anderson?” he asks at last.

“I see you’ve taken my advice about trusting people to heart,” Kamski says. “But no. It was my brother, Gavin.”

The enormous, high-windowed room seems to spin around Connor’s head. He struggles against the urge to close his eyes and try to regain equilibrium. Seeing Gavin Reed interact with his mother—his and Kamski’s—and watching the toll the Deviant Killer case was taking on him, it seemed impossible that Gavin could have killed four people in cold blood. Five, if you counted Ben Williams.

Then again, serial killers like to involve themselves in police investigations. They get off on it: seeing the frustration, the constant dead-end clues. Behavioral science studies also show that while serial murderers like the attention, a part of them knows that they’re unable to stop, unable to control the compulsion to kill. The only way to make them stop is arrest. Or death. 

Maybe Gavin took his cue from Ben Williams, deciding only after he’d killed him that the city _ did _ need its proverbial gutters cleaned out. But now it might be out of control. Maybe he wants to end the killing, which could be why he asked for Connor’s help in the first place.

“Jesus,” Connor whispers, blinking away vertigo.

“I know I should have gone to the police right then,” Kamski says. His face is arranged in the first sincere-looking expression Connor has seen him wear. “But he’s my brother. He protected me when I was just, well, a skinny nerd kid on the playground. I felt...I felt the need to protect _ him _ in return.”

Connor is about to tell Kamski to go to the police now, to go to _ Hank _, but he holds his tongue. It could all be an act, a ploy to shift the blame and throw everyone off the trail. He breathes in deep, then lets the air out in a quiet, measured stream. “Are you asking me to tell the task force?”

“I’m asking you to tell the world,” Kamski says. “Or at least your listenership. Do it—” he points to the monitor “—and that video disappears. You have until the end of the week. Otherwise, the chief of police and the director of public libraries both get an email from me they won’t be able to ignore.”

Unable to say anything, Connor nods stiffly.

Kamski turns away, prepared to leave the room, when Connor finds enough breath to call after him.

He turns. “Yes?”

“Did you send someone to threaten me and Markus Manfred?” asks Connor. “Some guy with a knife?”

Kamski raises his chin, looking down his nose, his mouth set in a sour line. “If I’d sent someone to threaten you, _ Connor_, he would be carrying something more..._insistent _than a knife. You should know by now, dear boy: nothing I do is small-time.” He turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Connor standing in the huge, quiet space.

Suddenly the air inside Kamski’s home is like an irritant on his skin. He shudders and walks to the exit as quickly as he can, boots thumping the glossy wood floor. Aurelia, the dark-haired woman, is nowhere to be seen. 

The outside air feels no less oppressive, and by the time he reaches his car, Connor is desperate to be out of the gate, out of the neighborhood, back into the city where it seems reasonably safe. 

Or, at least, it _ used to_.

**

Driving back, his phone nestled in its vent-mounted cradle, Connor sees North’s name pop up on the caller ID screen. He’s tempted to let it go to voicemail; she’s probably crouched to pounce when he picks it up, ready to scold him on Markus’s behalf for being _ selfish _ or _ irresponsible _ or something to that tune. Anyway, he wants to ask Gavin about Kamski’s claim that he’d killed Williams, the ex-cop.

At the last moment, he sighs and answers the phone, knowing that he can at least claim not to hear what she’s saying over the noise of the engine and the furious A/C. 

Connor turns the air all the way down, though, when he hears her tearful voice saying his name. “North,” he shouts over the engine’s rumble, trying at the same time to navigate into a strip mall parking lot, “slow down. Tell me what happened.”

“Markus,” she says, then pauses for a wet sniffle. “He’s—he’s in the hospital. Can you come, please? He’s really hurt.”

“Jesus, what happened?” asks Connor. 

“Some EMT called me, said a person walking had found him in an alley covered with blood. Thank God he has me down as his emergency contact.” North stops, stifling a noise, almost as if she’s trying not to scream. “His face...they couldn’t match him with his ID. So they called me.”

What feels like cold metal slides down Connor’s spine. “Tell me where. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“The one you were trying to figure out a few weeks ago,” she says.

_ Trust North never to forget a fuck-up _. “Sinai-Grace?” asks Connor. God, he hopes Jamel has gotten out by now. Whoever the Deviant Killer is, at least his tormentor Anthony Prutzman will never hurt him—or any other kid—again.

North gives up one broken-sounding sob. “Yeah.” She goes silent for a moment, sniffling softly. “Please hurry, Connor. I don’t know what to do.”

“It’ll be okay,” Connor tells her. “I’m going to call someone. I think he can help. Whatever it takes, I’m going to keep you safe, okay?”

He ends the call and immediately taps Hank’s name in his contact list. Whatever had happened to Markus—whether it was the guy with the knife coming back for revenge, or a total coincidence—Connor is okay with his decision to involve Hank now. He can still release an episode of _ Dead to Rights _ using the revelations from Kamski. To be honest, he hadn’t had any ideas for the next episode, anyway. Even the importance of the podcast in his life, its presence in his thoughts, has been quickly fading into the background.

“Hank?” Connor says right when he answers. The words that follow come out in a rush. “A friend of mine, the other guy with the podcast, Markus—somebody beat him up. I don’t know who. Last night, uh...before we met, a man threatened us with a knife.”

“Stop,” Hank says. “Connor, stop talking.”

Indignant, Connor still goes silent.

“Do you know if anyone’s questioning him about it?” Hank asks.

“No,” says Connor. “His girlfriend just called me. But he’d been looking into Elijah Kamski. Even before we did the joint podcast.”

Hank’s voice is kind, solicitous, when he speaks again. “Okay,” he says. “Tell me where he is. I’ll meet you.”

Connor gives him the information he knows and then hangs up, most of the nauseating tension that had built up inside him ebbing away just knowing that Hank would be there. Even though the last time he’d seen Markus had ended with an argument, something not quite formed flits at the edge of Connor’s thoughts. 

It’s darker still than his fears, a protective urge that goes beyond wanting to keep his friend safe. And it makes him want to hurt whoever did this to Markus. Not just to hurt, even, but to double the damage, make sure this person’s body is so broken it will never comply with his desire to harm anyone again.

If it’s Kamski, well...all the better.

When Connor pulls into the visitor parking deck at Sinai-Grace, he slows the car to a crawl up its seemingly endless ramps, looking for Hank. The man himself is standing by the rear bumper of his beat-up ride, his arms crossed over his chest.

Although Hank’s expression doesn’t change, Connor can see a familiar glint in his eyes as he parks in the next spot over. That is all it takes for every sensation, memory, and desire to come rushing back like a drug into his bloodstream. If Hank tells him to drop to his knees right here on the oil-stained concrete and suck him off, he’ll obey without question. 

At first, Connor believes the thought is a symptom of his awakening, of Hank finally claiming him and setting him free. A moment later he realizes that it isn’t a change at all—only a willingness to admit what he’s always known.

Hank pulls him into a close embrace when he gets out of the car, kissing his forehead and stroking hair away from his temple. “Are you all right? No one’s tried to hurt you, have they?”

Connor can truthfully say _ No_. 

“Good,” Hank says, low and gruff. There is a river of meaning running under that one word. “Do you know what happened to your friend?” he asks.

“Not really,” says Connor. “He could have a head injury. His girlfriend said his face was...covered with blood when they found him.”

Scowling, Hank says, “Jesus.” To Connor’s surprise, Hank takes his hand and squeezes it firmly. As they walk down the ramp to the cool concrete stairwell, he doesn’t let go.

At the emergency department reception desk, they are told that Markus has been moved upstairs for observation. Connor presses her for information on his condition, but she frowns and directs them to reception in another wing.

While the floor nurse on duty in Trauma Recovery checks to see if Markus is in surgery, Connor catches sight of North leaving one of the rooms, headed toward an instant coffee machine. 

Her red-rimmed eyes show instant relief when she recognizes him.

He’s nearly knocked over by the force of her hug. 

“Thank you for coming,” she mutters against his shoulder. Then, she says, “I’m sorry.”

Connor doesn’t understand what she has to apologize for. Before he can ask her, though, she turns and casts a skeptical glance at Hank. Following her gaze, Connor says, “North, this is Lieutenant Hank Anderson from the DPD. He’s…”

“Head of the the Deviant Killer Task Force,” Hank says, his clipped words shattering the brief, awkward silence. “And a close friend.”

Tentatively, still wary, North gives him another once-over, then says, “Nice to meet you.”

Hank only nods in response.

“Is he in surgery?” Connor asks.

“No,” North tells him. “They thought he might have to go in. There’s some bleeding.” Her face nearly crumples. “Um, inside his skull.” She keeps her fists clenched tight at her sides, willing the tears away. “If it gets bad, they might have to relieve some of the pressure on his brain.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Connor says, putting his arm around North’s shoulders again and pulling her close. “Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry. If only I’d been there.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t say anything.

“Can we see him?” asks Connor.

A nod from North. “I was just about to get some coffee. He’s not awake. They’ve got him on a lot of drugs right now. I think it might be a long night.”

Connor sighs. “Whatever you need, okay? If you want me—us—to stay, or to go, just say so.”

She nods again. 

At the coffee machine, Connor feeds a ten-dollar bill into the slot. He gets change in heavy, odd-looking dollar coins. Each of them ends up with a watery cup of brew. It tastes like mud, which is fine in the end, because coffee is the last thing on Connor’s mind when he walks into the darkened room. 

Even in the low light, it’s clear that the skin of Markus’s face is a minefield of bruising and swelling. One of his eyes is sealed shut in a plum-colored knot of flesh, flakes of dried blood still in the eyelashes. His already close-cropped hair is shaved to the skull around a line of sutures that begins over the left temple and snakes down to split his once-perfect brow. Markus’s lips are split, too, now shining with ointment. An area burned raw by pavement extends from the point of his chin to halfway up one cheek, and the mottled red and white also shimmers with antibacterial salve. Both of his hands rest on his chest, rising and falling with his even breathing. One is splinted with metal and foam, showing brutalized skin and cracked nails through a mass of bandaging. The back of his other hand, the uninjured one, sports an IV line, the thick needle plunged into a vein that pulses faintly with the flow of fluid. The plastic tube is filled with bright blood halfway up its length. An EKG machine beeps sedately beside the cold metal bed rail, as if it’s mocking the aftermath of violence. 

“Head wounds bleed so much,” North whispers. “He needed a couple pints of blood.” She looks over at Connor with bloodshot eyes. “His skin was gray when I first saw him. They didn’t even let me hold his hand.”

“I’m going to find him,” Connor tells her. “The motherfucker who did this.” He doesn’t care that Hank can hear. Even so, he flinches when he feels the man’s warm, solid hand on his shoulder. 

“I’ve already requested a protective detail,” says Hank. “We’ll be staying here until the officer arrives.”

North looks at him, but instead of the gratitude that Connor expects to see on her face, he’s met with a scowl. “He wouldn’t need it if I hadn’t been so _ stupid_,” she says.

Hank looks out the window, possibly scanning the parking lot for a DPD squad car. “It’s not your fault, kid.”

“He’s right,” Connor says to North. “There’s nothing you could have done.” With a glance toward the window, he adds, “You know how Markus feels about...police.”

It doesn’t seem to satisfy her, but she says nothing more. 

Though only Connor flinches, all three of them look toward the bed when Markus lets loose a low, rattling cough. 

North is standing next to him in a half-second, placing her fingertips on his knuckles just above the IV port. “Babe?” she asks. “Can you hear me?”

Markus’s one good eye flutters. He frowns, grimaces. Then the eye that isn’t swollen opens, the pupil spinning down to a pinpoint even in the dimness. 

Connor hopes that doesn’t mean some sort of brain damage. His heart feels like it’s lodged below his throat, paring his breath down to a thin, reedy stream. 

First, Markus looks over at North. A tear brims and spills over onto his cheek, slipping into the bandages. Half the sclera of his eye is flooded red with burst capillaries.

“I’m here,” North says. “You don’t have to say anything.”

But he looks at Connor. “You,” he says. 

“It’s okay,” Connor tells him, choking back the nasal sound of imminent tears. “Don’t try to talk.”

Markus repeats the word. “You...were right.”

“No,” Connor says. “I wasn’t. Not about anything. I never should have dragged you into this.”

Again, he feels Hank’s thick hand on his shoulder. This time, it’s a warning. _ He needs to keep from losing his shit here. _

After clearing his throat, Connor says to Markus: “I’ll get it sorted out. You’ll have a protective detail from the DPD. Leave the rest to me.”

Markus nods, or does something that looks to Connor like a nod. Afterwards, though, he grimaces again, hissing in pain. 

In a strained voice, North asks him, “What do you need? I’ll get a nurse.” She is visibly trying not to squeeze his injured hand.

Shaking his head, Markus tries to raise that same hand. He says something in a voice so low and raw that Connor can’t make it out.

As if summoned by his pain, a nurse walks in, the soles of her clogs leaving black scuffs of rubber with every squeaking step. Her face would be pleasant if not for the heavy lines etched between her brows. They seem to be a consequence of her deep frown, which remains as she looks over the pale faces by Markus’s bed. “Patients on this ward are only allowed two visitors at a time,” she says, shouldering past Connor and Hank to tug at the blankets falling over the foot of the bed.

Hank raises his hands, an unusual concession. “I’ll go.” He rests four fingertips lightly at the side of Connor’s neck, and murmurs, “Wait for you outside.”

Her expression unchanged, the nurse turns to him. “Visiting hours are up. Next of kin only.”

“I’m his girlfriend,” North tells her, indignant. “He doesn’t have family in the area.”

The nurse barely raises one eyebrow. “Are they on their way?”

Whatever look North gives her makes her purse her lips, but she doesn’t say anything further. Instead, she lets the thing she’d been holding fall. It’s a catheter bag, pinkish liquid still visible through the thick vinyl. “We’re going to need to take him for more tests,” she says, ignoring Connor and Hank. “There’s blood in his urine. We want to rule out internal bleeding.”

North looks like she wants to break down, but she only sets her jaw, the muscles bunching. “Whatever he needs. I’m staying here.”

When the sour-faced nurse turns toward Connor, he knows it’s time for him and Hank to leave. They stand in the hallway with North as the nurse and two physician assistants wheel Markus’s bed away, presumably to some imaging suite.

A low growl boiling up from her throat, North pulls her elbow back and aims a punch at the wall. 

Hank seizes her wrist in a powerful grip, twisting her arm up and away a half second before she split her knuckles open against the painted concrete. Even though he speaks very, very softly, Connor can still hear what he says to her: “You’re not helping him with that,” he hisses. “Get your head on straight.”

For a moment, Connor expects her to explode in a fit of temper. North has a short fuse to begin with, and he can’t imagine feeling anything but affronted if some strange man—some _ cop_—grabbed him out of the blue.

But, to his surprise, she backs down. It’s almost as if all the fight goes out of her, and that’s possibly more terrifying than Markus’s injuries. This time, finally, she turns to Connor and falls weeping into his arms. 

When North has cried herself out, she assures Connor that she’ll be okay. The three of them wait in a tight, anxious knot until the uniformed officer arrives and checks in with Hank. She takes her position outside Markus’s empty room, the handle of her service weapon glinting on her hip.

Reluctant to leave, Connor tells North she can call at any time for any reason. She nods and makes a half-hearted promise to do it. Then she shoots an unreadable look at Hank. It’s that look that follows them down the main corridor and out of her sight.

In the elevator, Hank turns his head. “How do you feel?” he asks Connor.

The visit with Markus had sent a tornado of emotion tearing through him, seeming to stretch and tug at his very muscles. But now the space inside him is still and calm. Not tranquil—not that at all—but solid, like a pillar around which his body is constructed. 

“Angry,” he tells Hank. “Furious. But it doesn’t feel like anger, really. It feels like…”

“Like a relief?” asks Hank, keeping his voice neutral.

Connor nods. “Sort of, yeah. Like I’ve finally made a decision that was weighing on my mind.”

For the first time that day, Hank lets a smile touch his lips. “You _ have_,” he says. “Whether or not you know yet what you’ve decided.”

It’s cryptic, but that’s par for the course; Connor only has to let go and trust. 

In the slice of open sky he sees between the rise of the hospital and the visitor parking garage, most of the bright blue has been erased by clouds, the midday sun diluted. A wet-smelling wind has picked up. 

In the vestibule of the concrete staircase, he and Hank pass two rangy men in hooded sweatshirts. Both are ashen and stubble-faced, both have their hoods pulled up. One of them chews on a frayed, splintery thing that might once have been a toothpick. They look away as they edge by. 

Connor feels his pulse pick up slightly. The wind blowing through the open decks of the parking structure is almost cool. He’s nearly reached his car’s rear bumper when he hears his name in Hank’s voice, spoken under his breath.

As he turns, Connor’s adrenaline spikes. The two men in hoodies from the stairwell are walking toward them, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, cold fury in their eyes.

“Shit,” Connor hisses.

“Hey!” one of the guys calls. Eager in that jittery addict way, he pulls his knobby fist from the pocket of the hoodie, having to tug the fabric away to wrestle his hand free.

In a second, Connor sees it’s because that hand is bulked up with a set of brass knuckles. He’s never seen anyone wear them outside a movie. 

The guy breaks into a jog. He leaves his companion behind for only a moment—only long enough for him to crouch and draw a knife from his grubby work boot. 

Hauling in air to cool his nerves, Connor mashes the button on his keyfob and ducks into the narrow space between his car and the SUV beside it. He throws open the passenger side door as far as it will go, knocking the SUV’s side mirror, and crams most of his upper body inside, trying to get to the glove box. 

Faceless forms writhe in reflection on the windshield; the two guys have gotten to Hank. Someone is pushed up against Connor’s car, and it rocks on its wheels. He pauses to haul up on the emergency brake then fumbles the glove compartment open.

The handgun, along with its holster belt, is gone.

“_Fuck!_” he shouts, the sound almost deafening in the confined space. The woman, Aurelia, or another of Kamski’s goons must have searched his car while he was inside talking to their boss. 

Meaning this has to be a setup. Kamski had no intention of releasing the video, but only because it wouldn’t matter if Connor and Hank are already dead.

Connor frees himself from the car in time to see Hank grappling with the man wielding the knife. He’s got one huge hand around the guy’s throat and is holding one of the guy’s wrists, trying to squeeze the knife from his grip. 

Before Connor is able to do anything, though, Brass Knuckles comes up and plows his fist into the side of Hank’s face, the side Connor can’t see. 

Hank’s head is knocked sharply sideways. 

For a hallucinatory second, Connor remembers what it felt like when Hank slapped him in the kitchen—tendons in his neck snapping taut, the blurred vision, his ears ringing. Leaning forward, he charges Knife Guy, catching him in the ribs with his shoulder and knocking him right off his feet. Connor stumbles to a crouch, but Knife Guy slams into the concrete. If half of his breath had gone when Connor tackled him, the rest leaves his lungs in a whistling huff as he crashes down. 

Hank is clutching at his cheekbone, bright blood trickling between his fingers. Still, he meets Connor’s eye, looking dazed but definitely not out of the game. At least he’d let go of Knife Guy’s wrist or he might have followed him down. 

Connor turns and kicks at Brass Knuckles’ shin. His boot grazes but doesn’t hit. Instead, Brass Knuckles skips out of the way and aims a punch close to Connor’s kidney. It hurts like a bitch, but there wasn’t enough leverage behind it to do serious damage.

The guy is pulling back for another one when he’s pummeled by Hank’s meaty fist, which lands an uppercut right below his chin.

There’s a crunching sound and a spray of blood in the air beside Connor’s head. Later, he’ll find a fleck of something in the fabric of his shirt that will turn out to be a piece of tooth.

Brass Knuckles stumbles away and howls, clutching his face.

Ribbons of blood stream down Hank’s neck from the cut on his cheek as he walks over to Knife Guy. Hank is wearing the same impractical loafers he’d worn to the GM site, but the kick he drives into Knife Guy’s face still looks plenty hard. 

Through the dirty rear window of Hank’s car, Connor spots the rusty tire iron Hank had tossed there. Sticking close to the car, he sidles around the rear bumper and tugs the door handle, praying it’s unlocked.

Blessedly, with a heavy thump the latch clicks open and he yanks on the door and dives for the tire iron. Tiny prickles of rust feel like sparks on his palms.

Spinning around again, Connor sees that Hank is on one knee by Knife Guy, having half-turned the blade around in the man’s grip and now putting his weight behind trying to sink it into the stubble-peppered flesh of his neck. Hank is huge, and strong, but true mortal terror has given Knife Guy strength enough to hold him off for now. 

Connor looks over at Brass Knuckles, who is still crouched and cradling what might be a broken jaw. It only takes one step toward Hank and a brief glance away, and Brass Knuckles is on his feet again. 

Blood pours from his mouth when he takes his hand away. It’s horrific, grotesque. Like a zombie film. With a roar of wounded rage, the man charges toward Hank and the guy he’s grappling with.

Before he understands what his body is doing, Connor has taken a wide stance and raised the tire iron in a two-fisted grip over his left shoulder, like a batter at home base. It’s his off side, but he can still put enough strength behind the strike if he moves from the hip.

Connor twists a little further, and then—right before Brass Knuckles comes within arm’s reach of Hank—he swings the tire iron with as much force as he can muster. It cracks against the assailant’s forehead so hard there’s a recoil, and shudders of vibration move in electric waves down Connor’s arms.

Brass Knuckles jerks suddenly upright, so stiff it looks as if he’s strapped to an invisible board. A final exhalation sends a shower of blood droplets onto Hank’s back...and into Connor’s face. Finally, Brass Knuckles topples over backward onto the concrete. His head actually bounces when it hits, then lolls to the side, his face toward Connor. There’s a dent in his forehead, the skin split in the center. It barely bleeds, though. Instead, a dark stain spreads underneath, a huge volume pooling and running down underneath his shoulders along the slight incline of the deck floor. The man’s eyes are half-open, only the whites showing.

Connor doesn’t have to step any closer to know that he’s dead. 

A grunt and a sigh from Hank snaps him back to reality. Hank is hunched over Knife Guy, whose boot heels kick once or twice on the ground and then stop.

When Hank sits back, Connor sees the dull curve of the knife’s bone handle but none of the blade. Everything below the hilt is jammed under the dead man’s chin, angled up and back toward his brainstem. 

His body twitches and a trail of maroon liquid overspills his slack lips.

Hank is breathing hard as he rises, bracing one bloody hand on his knee to help him stand. Despite the exertion, his cheek is bleeding less heavily, though his face is slightly pale. “Are you hurt?” he asks Connor.

“Am I—?” Connor starts. “What—_no_.” He puts one hand out, the fingers trembling in the aftermath, gesturing at the two dead men on the ground. “Those guys tried to—they were gonna—”

“We need to leave,” Hank tells him.

“No,” Connor says again. “_You’re _ hurt. We should go back to the hospital.” Even as he says it, he understands how ridiculous the idea is.

Hank shakes his head and touches his cheek. “Just a graze. Fucker couldn’t punch.” As if the mention has only just reminded him of the existence of the man with the brass knuckles, Hank half-turns and looks down at him. The corpse looks like a wax statue. Tendrils of blood creep toward the other assailant, now adding his own to the tableau of gore. 

“Thank you,” Hank says.

“For what?”

“I assume you saved my ass. While I was...otherwise occupied.” His calm is remarkable.

“I—I couldn’t let him hurt you,” Connor says.

After taking a second to tilt his chin and crack his neck, Hank goes and retrieves the knife, bracing himself with one foot on the dead man’s shoulder. It pulls free with a hideous sucking sound, but the wound left behind gapes open and bloodless under the fluorescent lights.

Nodding to the tire iron, Hank says, “Put that in my car. We’ll go to your place.”

Connor doesn’t argue. Although his limbs feel weak and rubbery, the full weight of what he’s seen—and what he’s _ done_—hasn’t yet fallen on him. He barely flinches as he backs his car over one of the bodies.

Studying crime and murder has been Connor’s hobby for a long time. As he drives away from the hospital, he imagines the bloody tire tracks leading down the ramp, trailing off before the exit, where he had calmly swiped his credit card with bloodstained fingers. And if there were cameras in the parking garage? The two of them would be easy to trace, or at least _ he _ would.

But Hank is police. He has influence. And he understands self defense. He wouldn’t lead Connor to a place he’d regret.

_ Would he? _

Like every other question in his mind, that one balances on the sizzling edge of his nerves, which are thankfully still hot enough to render everything to ash. It takes him a very long time—nearly the entire drive to his apartment building—to realize that the humming in his body is a different kind of excitement now.

The previous night, he’d drawn Hank’s blood with his teeth and tasted it. They had shared that taste between them, a covenant. Today, he had _ spilled blood _ for Hank’s sake, and Hank had killed someone for him in return.

What’s more, Connor had acted without thinking, and he can only assume that Hank did the same. 

Now, he feels something he can only describe as _ yearning_, a need for Hank that goes beyond the usual desperation for a dirty fuck, for Hank’s hands and mouth all over him, his fingers and his cock inside him. But beyond to _ where_, Connor doesn’t know.

Fortunately, Hank seems to understand. He doesn’t put the feeling into words, doesn’t explain, but it’s a translation nonetheless. Upstairs in the small bathroom, Hank closes the door and turns on the shower. Standing behind Connor at the sink, his warmth huge and insistent, he takes Connor’s wrists and pushes his hands underneath the flow of water, rubbing them almost raw with his callused fingers. Clots and flakes of brownish-red fall into the basin. They stick to the porcelain for a moment, leaking threadlike trails into the water, then are washed away. 

Connor has no great desire to look at his blood-spattered face, but soon enough it doesn’t matter, anyway. The mirror is obscured with steam. 

As it billows around their shoulders, Hank slowly undresses him, then sheds his own clothes in a pile on the linoleum. In the small shower, they stand under the water until it goes cool, Connor with his arms around Hank’s waist and his face pressed against his shoulder. Hank holds him still and tight with strong arms. 

Connor shivers even in the heated air as Hank gently dries him with one of his own towels.

He shivers for a different reason altogether as a kneeling Hank drops the towel at his feet and leans forward to take his cock into his mouth. It isn’t long before Connor is achingly hard. It can’t last, even though he wants it to—it’s the first time that Hank has done this for him uncoerced. But he’s so weary, shaken to the marrow, as if the reverberations from the fatal blow he’d struck had just kept ringing inside him.

Hank holds his hips as Connor whimpers softly and comes, spilling into that warm mouth.

Without a sound—either of protest or satisfaction—Hank swallows everything down. He discreetly swabs at his lips with one thumb and then stands up, but shakes his head when Connor reaches for his still-limp cock. Instead, he hoists Connor up in his arms, bridal-style, carrying him nestled against his broad, bare chest.

As for Connor, he should be shocked, but exhaustion overwhelms him. 

Hank arranges him gently on his side in the bed, then curls that huge body around him and holds him until he sleeps.


End file.
